Amazing Stories v03n08 (1928 11) (bd sas)

Sedan, a Brunswick Phonograph- and many other valuable prizes — besides Hundreds of Dollars in

Cash. Tli is offer is open to anyone living in the IT. S.
A. outside of Chicago.

Solve This
Puzzle

There are'7 ears in the circle. By drawing 3 straight
lines you can put each one in a space by itself. It
may mean winning a prize if you send me your answer
right away.

$750*00 for Promptness

In addition to the many valuable prizes and Hundreds of Dollars in Cash, we are also giving
a Special Prize of $750.00 in Cash for Promptness. First prize winner will receive $2,750.00 in cash,
or tlie- Nash Hedan and $750.00 in cash. In case of ties duplicate prizes will be awarded each one

tying. Solve the puzzle right away and send me your

answer together with your name and adress plainly

John T. Adams, Mgr., Dept. 1068 J wr ;tten. $4,500.00 in' prizes — EVERYBODY RE-

323 S. Peoria St., Chicago, 111. ; WARDED.

Here is jny answer to the puzzle.

My Name...
Address

John T. Adams, Mgr.

Dept. 1068

323 So. Peoria St.

Chicago, 111.

.

.

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BROADCAST

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WRNY

HUGO GERNSBACK

EDITOR

SSlwisflS

mmismm

AMAZING STORIES

673

/^eWwtuit BIO money
these fellom have made
in the RADIO BUSIN EM

$375 One Month Spare Time

“Recently I made $375 in
one month in my spare
time installing, servicing,
selling Radio sets. And,'
not so long ago, I earned
enough in one week to pay
for my course.”

EARLE CUMMINGS,

18 Webster St., Haverhill, Mass.

$1597 la Five Months

“The N. R. I. is the best
Radio school in the U. S. A.
I have made $1597 in five
‘months. I shall always tell
my friends that I owe my
success to you.”

HENRY J. NICKS, Jr.,
302 Salford Ave...

Tarpon Springs, Fla.

$1164 S^are Time Profits

“ Look at what I have made
since I enrolled, $1,164 —
money I would not have
had otherwise. I am cer-
tainly glad I took up Radio
with N. R. I. I am more
than satisfied.”

HENRY R. HE1KKINEN,
123 W. Erie St., Chicago, III

Over $1999 Isa Four Months

“My opinion of the N. R. I.
course is that it is the best
to be had at any price.
When I enrolled I didn’t
know a condenser from a
transformer, but from De-
cember to April I made
well over $1000 and I only
'worked in the mornings.”
AL. JOHNSON,

•1409 Shelby St., Sandusky, Ohio.

(f wUi then) ifOUtOQ

how to siattaspaie
lime or full time

[Radio Business
rfYoui 1 Own ^
smmout capiJkai,

Radio’s amazing growth is making many big jobs. The world-
wide use of receiving sets and the lack of trained men to sell,
install and service them has opened many splendid chances*
for spare time and full time businesses*

Ever bo often a new business is started in this country. We have seen bow
the growth of the automobile industry, electricity and others made men rich.
Now Radio is doing the same thing. Its growth has already made many men
rich and will make more wealthy in the future- Surely you are not going' to
pass' up this wonderful chance for success.

Mere Trained Radio Men Needed

A famous Radio expert says there are four

food jobs for every man trained to hold them."
tadio has grown, so fast that it simply has
not got the number of trained men it needs.
Every year there are hundreds of fine jobs
among its many branches such as broad-
casting stations, Radio factories, jobbers,
dealers, on board, ship, commercial land sta-
tions, and many others. Many of the six to
ten million receiving sets now in use are only
25% to 40% efficient. This has made your
big chance for. a spare time or full time
business of .your own selling, installing, repair-
ing sets.

So Many Opportunities Ton Can Make
Extra Money -While Learning

Many of our students make $10, $20, $30 a
week extra while learning. I’ll' show you the

plans and ideas that have proved
successful for them — show you
bow to begin making extra money shortly after
you. enroll. G. W. Page, 1807-21st Ave., S.,

Nashville, Tenn., made $935 in liis spare time
while taking my course. i - i

S OIv© You Practical Radio Experience * Q&fc CofMi f M

With My Course V L. - f

' %mBooL ‘

1 Will Train You At Home In Ycur
Spare Time

'I bring my training to you. Hold your job*
Give me only part of your spare time. Yoi^
don’t have to be a college or high school
graduate.. Many of my gr&duatcs'now mak-
ing big money in Radio didn’t even finish the
.grades. Boys 14, 15 year3 old and men up
to 6Q have finished my course successfully.

You Must Re Satisfied
I will give you a written, agreement the day,
you enroll to refund your money if you are
not satisfied with the lessons and instruction
service when you complete the course. You
are the only judge. The resourcesof the N. R. I.
Pioneer and Largest Home-Study Radio school
in the. world stand back of tliis agreement.
Get My Bock

Find but what Radio offers you. My 64 -page*
book, “Rich Rewards in Radio’*
points out the money making op-
portunities the growth of Radio,
has made, for you. Clip the cou-
pon. Send it to me. You won t,
pe obligated in the least.

My course is not just theory. My method
givfis you practical Radio experience —
*you learn the “how” and “why”
of practically every type of Radio
set -made. This gives you confi-
dence to tackle any Radio problems
and shows up in your pay envelope too,

You can build 100 cir-
cuits with the Six Big
Outfits of Radio parts
I give you. The pictures
here show only three of
them. My book explains
my method of giving prac-
tical training at home*
Get your copy I

9k

AV®

Address

J. E. Smith, P?eS.
Dept. 33A2

National Radio Institute
Washington, I>. C.

!. E. Smith,

{President.

Dept., 33A2
J National Radio Institute, Washington, D. C.
Dear Mr. Smith: Send mo your book. I
want to know more about the opportunities
.in Radio and your practical method of teaching 1
at home in spare time. This request does.
• not obligate me to. enroll and. I understand
i no agent will call on me..

[ Name..., Age.

[ Address— ....... ... ... .........

J City...,., State.. «...

JULES VERNE’S TOMBSTONE AT AMIENS
PORTRAYING HIS IMMORTALITY

ffgsnmffis

November, 1928
Vol. 3, No. 8

EDITORIAL &. GENERAL OFFICES: 230 Fifth A ve.. New York City
Published by Experimenter Publishing Company, Inc.

H. GERNSBACK. Pres. ; S. GERNSBACK, Vlco-Pres. and Treas.

C. E. ROSENFELT, Sec’y

Publishers of SCIENCE & INVENTION, RADIO NEWS,

RADIO LISTENERS’ GUIDE. AMAZING
STORIES QUARTERLY, YOUR BODY

Owners of Broadcast Station WRJfY

In Our November Issue:

The World at Bay

By B. and Geo. C. Wallis H 678

The Ananias Gland

By W. Alexander 707

The Psychophonic Nurse

By David H. Keller, M.D 710

The Moon Men

By Frank Brueckel, Jr 718

The Eye of the Vulture

By Walter Kateley 738

The Living Test Tube

By Joe Simmons 744

Our Cover

this month depicts a scene from “The Moon Men,” by Frank
Brueckel, Jr., showing our pioneers emerging from their
space-flyer, after having unexpectedly landed on Ganymede,
the third of Jupiter’s satellites, and beholding a tremendous
disc (Jupiter) striped with broad, red bands and whitish-
yellow ones, spread over an enormous part of the heavens.

In Our Next Issue:

THE WORLD AT BAY, by B. and Geo. C.
Wallis. (A Serial in Two Parts) Part II. The
chapters of the final instalment of this story are
vibrant with excitement and strategy and inter-
esting possible means for combatting the horrors
of the Troglodytes and their unknown deadly pois-
onous gas. It is no mean job to fight the fiends
in their strangely devised helicopters, run by
radium energy. But not once is the human inter-
est part of the story allowed to lag.

THE SPACE BENDER, by Edward L. Remen-
ter. May it not, after all, have been purely acci-
dental that the anthropoid adapted itself to varying
conditions on this planet more quickly than the
others, and so finally evolved into the higher ani-
mal — a human being? It is an interesting conjec-
ture, what the results of a snake or fish ancestry,
for instance, would be like. Our new author has
chosen an interesting subject, to which he does
full justice in this story.

BEFORE THE ICE AGE, by Alfred Fritchey.
We know practically nothing about the “pre-
record” day civilizations. What did the people in
the days of the Aramaic language, for instance, use
to build and mold? This story, told with the easy
facility of sailor-inn charm and freshness, makes
delightful reading, though there is plenty of food
for thought.

THE APPENDIX AND THE SPECTACLES,

by Miles J. Breuer, M.D. We are sure that all
those readers who have read Dr. Breuer’s short
stories of medical science and psychology, will be
glad to welcome him back. In this new story, our
author enters into a slightly new combination with
his medical science — if anything, more successfully
than ever.

And others.

HOW TO SUBSCRIBE TO "AMAZING STORIES." Send your name,
address and remittance to Experimenter Publishing Co., 230 Fifth Ave.,
New York City. Checks and money orders should be made payable to
Experimenter Publishing Co., Inc. Mention the name of the magazine you
are ordering Inasmuch as we also publish RADIO NEWS, SCIENCE &
INVENTION. RADIO LISTENERS' GUIDE AND CALL BOOK,
AMAZING STORIES QUARTERLY and YOUR BODY. Subscriptions
may be made in combination with the other publications just mentioned

at special reduced club rates. Send postal for club rate card. Subscrlp-
Jiwivn’L"’™* 1 t i ie curront issue unless otherwise ordered.

ON EXPIRATION of your subscription we enclose a renewal blank In your
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to go. It takes several weeks to make an address change In our records.

AMAZING STORIES is published on the 5th of each preceding month.
There are 12 numbers per year. Subscription price Is $2.50 a year In
U. S. and possessions. Canada and foreign countries $3.00 a year U. 8.
coin as well as U. S. stamps accepted (no foreign coin or stamps). Single
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AMAZTNG STORIES Monthly. Entered as second class matter March 10,
1920. by the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the act of March 3,
1879. Title Registered IT. S. Patent Office. Copyright, 1927, by E. P.
Co., Inc., New York. The text and illustrations of this Magazine are
copyrighted and must not be reproduced without giving full credit to the
publication. AMAZING STORIES is for sale at all newsstands In the
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Advertising Representatives: Rhodes & Leisenring

New York Office: 624 Graybar Building Chicago Office: 307 North Michigan Avenue

674

AMAZING STORIES

675

a weeK
as a
siarler

Bock trill*, Ccnn,

Chemical Institute of Sew York, Ino.,

66 West Broadway,

New York, N. Y.

Gentlemen:

You will probably be pleased to learn
one of the leeaons gave me an idea to turn
my chemical knowledge to profitable aocount.
I a a now making a varnish and paint which
undersells the other type products by $3.60
a gallon, in some cases more. Have been re-
ceiving gallon orders from painters during
past week which has netted me a profit of
$13.50 for my "spare-time chemical industry.
Many thanks for your training thus far.

Yours very truly.

Chemistry Student turns Knowledge
into big Sparetime Profits!

Because he knew how to prepare his product from a knowledge of chemistry, J. J. Kelly
produced a highly profitable article far below the price of organized competition.

Sales came easy — because competition was overcome. Chemistry solved his problem.

Boundless Sparetime profit opportunities from
Chemical Formulas— for those who grasp them

Chemical Formulas are the basis of, not one,
but thousands of big profit sparetime busi-
nesses, such as selling soaps, cleaning and
polishing compounds, paints, acids, inks,
cements, extracts, glues, gold, silver, and
bronze lacquerings, oils, perfumery, rust
removers, etc.

With a knowledge of chemistry you can beat
J. J. Kelly’s recofrd by many dollars a week.

You need not be dependent on wholesale or
retail companies to supply your finished
products for sale.

You can make up your own products at
home and sell cheaper than any competitor.

That means quick sales in large quantities.

YOU CAN BE A TRAINED CHEMIST
Through Our Home Study Course

To qualify for this remarkable calling re-
quires ^careful specialized training For-

EASY MONTHLY PAYMENTS

You don’t have to have even the small price of the course to start. You can pay
for it in small monthly amounts — so small that you won’t feel them. The cost of
the course is very low, and includes everything, even the chemistry outfit — there
are no extras to buy with our course. Our plan of monthly payments places a chemical
education within the reach of everyone.

EXPERIMENTAL EQUIPMENT FURNISHED TO
EVERY STUDENT

We give to every student without additional charge his chemical equipment, including
fifty-two piece of laboratory apparatus and supplies, and fifty-two different chemicals
and reagents. These comprise the apparatus and chemicals used for the experimental
work of the course. The fitted heavy wooden box serves not only as a case for the
outfit but also as a useful laboratory accessory for performing countless experiments.

Don’t Wait — Mail Coupon Now!

r CHEMICAL INSTITUTE OF NEW YORK

16-18-A — East 30th Street NEW YORK, N. Y.

merly it was necessary to attend a university
for several years to acquire that training,
but thanks to our highly perfected and thor-
ough system of instruction, you can now stay
at home, and let us educate you in Chemistry
during your spare time. Even with only
common schooling you can take our course
and equip yourself for immediate practical
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with apparatus and chemicals for perform-
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method of teaching, and you are awarded
the Institute’s diploma after you have satis-
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T. O’CONOR SLOANE

A.B., A.M., LL.D., Ph.D.

Noted Instructor, Lecturer,
and Author. Formerly Treas-
urer American Chemical So-
ciety and a practical chem-
ist with many well-known
achievements to his credit.
Not only has Dr. Sloane
taught chemistry for years,
but he was for many years
engaged in commercial chem-
istry work.

MAIL THE COUPON FOR FREE BOOK

Clip the coupon below and mail it at once. Your name and nddres9
on the coupon will bring you by return mail our interesting free
book, “OPPORTUNITIES FOR CHEMISTS,” and full par-
ticulars about the course and what it will do for you.

^CHEMICAL INSTITUTE OF NEW YORK, A-10-28

I Home Extension, Division 10, 16-18-A-East 30tn St.

New York, N. Y.

I Please send me at once, without any obligation on my part, your
free Book, Opportunities for Chemists, and full particulars about
the Experimental Equipment given to every student. Also please
■ tell me about your plan of payment.

Please say you saw it in AMAZING STORIES

676

AMAZING STORIES

Against an amazing back*
ground of mechanical, electri-
cal and chemically altered
life of mankind there is set
a brilliant and colorful ro-
mance in the life of the
greatest living scientist of
that age.

Ralph’s love for the beauti-
ful stranger, his conquest of
his rival and the worsting of
the great saturnine Martian,
culminating in a running fight
in space with tragedy and
terror conquered by almost
unbelievable and incredible
weapons, make one of the
most interesting and gripping
stories ever told.

700

YEARS

HENCE

N 1908, Mr. Hugo Gernsback, Editor of Amazing Stor-
ies, published the first radio magazine the world had ever
seen — “Modern Electrics.” In one of these volumes he ran
a story entitled “Ralph 124C 41 +, A Romance of the Year
2660.” This story, although written many years ago, proved
more valuable as the years went by, because many of the
prophecies he made in this book gradually came true.

This was in the days before broadcasting had even been
thought of, and before we had the radio telephone, yet all of
this is faithfully chronicled in this story.

Old-time readers of “Modern Electrics” probably remem-
ber the story, and now have a chance to get the complete book.

A pioneer in the electrical and radio field, Mr. Gernsback
has a profound knowledge of the subjects, coupled with a
finely trained and highly imaginative mind.

This unusual combination has enabled him to foreshadow

with almost unbelievable accuracy some of the more recent
developments. His earlier predictions, which have appeared
from time to time during the past decade in many newspapers
and magazines, are now realities. Every prophecy is based
on accurate scientific knowledge. His ideas are no more fan-
tastic than the realities and commonplaces of our everyday
life would have been to our great grandfathers.

j ORDER BLANK

EXPERIMENTER PUBLISHING CO.. INC.

| 230 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Gentlemen: Enclosed find S lor which please send mo

I copies of "RALPH 124C 41+," by Hugo Gernsback.

■ Name

| Address

City State

PRICE $2.15 POSTPAID A.S. 11-28

THE STRATFORD COMPANY, Publishers

— For Sale by —

EXPERIMENTER PUBLISHING CO., Inc., 230 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

Please say you saw it in AMAZING STORIES

HUGO GERNSBACK, Editor

DR. T. O’CONOR SLOANE, Ph.D., Associate Editor WILBUR C. WHITEHEAD, Literary Editor
MIRIAM BOURNE, Associate Editor C. A. BRANDT, Literary Editor

Editorial and General Offices: 230 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Extravagant Fiction T oday ... C old Fact T omorrow

AMAZING LIFE

By HUGO GERNSBACK

JNE of the most astounding traits of the human
mind is that it seldom compares the human body
to other living creatures. Few people, as a matter
of fact, stop to consider and ponder how the
rest — the non-human creatures — get along, al-
though it would pay most of us to make such
an investigation.

Consider such a well-known creature as the fish, which lives
a totally different sort of life from that of the human being.
Although distantly related to us, the fish has neither lungs
to breathe with nor the sort of blood circulation that we have.
Yet, he manages to get along rather nicely, in a medium that
5s totally different from ours.

The truth of the matter is, that in nature, we find life dis-
tributed in practically every conceivable strata, and it may
be said without contradiction, that if necessary, the creatures
will adapt themselves to the most astounding environments —
environments incomprehensible to us.

It is impossible for a human being — unless steel-incased —
to dive more than 350 feet under water. At a greater depth
than this, the pressure of the water becomes so great as to
cause “bends” or caisson sickness, as well as other serious
disorders.

It was long argued, that «even fish would find it impossible
to exist at a lower depth than 200 or 300 feet. Yet, the Alba-
tross Expedition some years ago brought up a specimen caught
at a depth of over 17,494 feet, where the water pressure per
square inch was at least 5,500 pounds. Compare this with a
little over 14 pounds of pressure to which the human body
i3 subjected by our own atmosphere. Yet, the deep-sea fish
managed to get along very well, simply because they have
adapted themselves to their surroundings. More astonishing
still, is the fact that some of these deep-sea fish which have
chosen the bottom of the ocean as their domain, where per-
petual darkness reigns, manufacture their own light, either
through their eyes or through other light-giving spots dis-
tributed along their bodies. Thus, it will be seen that some
of them have overcome almost insurmountable obstacles, i.e.,
tremendous pressure and lack of light.

Neither great heat nor extreme cold seems to discourage
the generation of life. Of course, there is a limit to the
temperature variations, because no living being has thus far
been known to exist in temperatures such as boiling water.

Yet, even here, there are bacteria which can live in boiling
water for a few minutes — anthrax, for instance.

Ice, at ordinary temperature, that is, around 30 degrees
Fahrenheit, seems to be no deterrent to life. A good many
micro-organisms can readily be found in ice, while even such
high organisms as fish can be frozen stiff and left in this
condition for days and months at a time, after which they
can be thawed out and revived, without much trouble. Even
the lack of the all-important oxygen does not necessarily spell
a death-knell for all living creatures. For instance, we will
find certain insects and other small organisms abounding at
the tops of our highest mountains, where the air pressure has
been reduced a great deal, and where oxygen is not as abundant
as it is at sea level. Not only are they there, but these organ-
isms continue to live comfortably with comparatively little
oxygen, in a temperature that is usually a great deal below
freezing.

Svante Arrhennius, the famous Scandinavian scientist, many
years ago, built up a theory by which he intended to prove
that it was not at all impossible that life was transmitted from
one planet to another, throughout the universe. Arrhennius
argued that it is quite possible that small micro-organisms
are thrown to such heights into our upper atmosphere, that in
time, due to volcanic and other forces, they are ejected into
outer space, there to float for years and centuries and thousands
of years before they come into contact with other habitable
worlds. Of course, these organisms might be quite micro-
scopic; in fact, they would have to be, in order to float to the
highest part of our atmosphere, from where they could be
driven out into space. Upon landing on a distant planet, where
the conditions of life would be right, the organisms would
come to life, just as a frozen fish will come to life in tepid
water.

Arrhennius, indeed, was the first savant who imagined that
any living organism could exist in the interstellar cold, which
is — 459.4 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and at the same time
live in an almost perfect vacuum, a thing that has never been
conceded before.

Yet, there is no good reason to believe that living beings,
even of a comparatively higher order, should not find it pos-
sible to live quite comfortably in a vacuum and at absolute
zero. If nature should find it necessary to evolve a creature
to live under such conditions, it seems quite likely that it could
be, and perhaps has been, accomplished.

Mr. Hugo Gcrnsbach speaks every Tuesday at 9.30 P. M. from WRNY (326 meters ) and 2 XAL (30.91 meters) on various scientific subjects.

^WOBJLD BAY

By B. and Geo. C. Wallis

The First Hint of the Storm

HOUGH writing is my trade, I approach
the task of telling this story with some mis-
givings ; yet I believe I can write this story
from fuller personal knowledge than any
other person can.

Rita, of course, is helping me, and Dick and John.

The memory of that awful time, of the things I saw
and of the part I played in that great struggle, seems
now like a noxious dream. Yet it was no dream. It
was a terror, beside which the terrors of the Great War
were only as the rumblings of stage thunder.

I do not propose to more than mention here the great
shock that made the earth tremble on September 19,
1936; a shock that was recorded on all the seismo-
graphic stations of the world, and caused much loss
of life in South America. That will be explained at
the proper time.

Our first news of the People of the Underworld
was dramatic in the extreme.

I was staying in the New York Head Office waiting
for news of the settlement of a big industrial dispute,
when Dick Martin burst in like a whirlwind.

“I’ve got it, boys !” he shouted. “I’ve got IT. Queer-
est yarn ever. Some men picked up from an open
boat yesterday by a tramp steamer south of Valparaiso.
Said they were the sole survivors of the liner Fuji.
Ship had been attacked suddenly by an airplane, which
could rise and fall vertically. Airplane fired a sort of
gun at the ship, and when the shell burst, a cloud of

fog smothered the Fuji.

The men who escaped got
below before the fog
reached them and took
refuge in the engine-room.

“The airplane people
then dispersed the fog in
some way, came down, and
landed on deck. They were
a kind of men, but queer.

The engineers kept them at
bay with blasts of super-
heated steam, and after a time the airplane rose again
and fired another shell. The rescued sailors were the
only two who got off safely in one of the boats. The
chaps in the airplane didn’t bother pursuing them.”

“Who stuffed you with that yarn?” said I. “Was
the good old sea-serpent there also?”

“Still, it’s a fact that the Fuji is four days overdue,”
said Johnson.

“And also a fact,” Dick added, “that the said overdue

shriveled bodies, has just been salvaged by a British
vessel. As for your query, Max — I got my informa-
tion direct by a cable from a friend in Valparaiso.”

“Of course you’ve got convincing details,” I jeered.
Something curious has happened, no doubt, but a
helicopter aero, with a sort of gun, and a crew of a
kind of men, and a cloud of poison gas! What kind
of men?”

“The sailors said the men in the plane were short
and broad, with pasty faces. Muffled up in thick
clothes and wore huge dark goggles. I tell you it’s
the biggest scoop the Scoop ever scooped!”

“Pity the Head’s out, and I’m on the job,” I grunted.
“Rather he had the turning-down of you, Dick. If
he were here — ■”

As the words left my lips the door swung open, and
the Head himself stepped in.

“Whistle ’em up, Harding,” he shouted. “Acceler-
ate ’em. Not a minute to waste. Biggest boom of the
century.”

“Anything to do with freak airplanes and a new
sort of men?” inquired Johnson, grinning.

The Head swung round savagely.

“How the deuce have you got wind of it? Yes, it
has. A dozen airships, manned by queer-looking beings
from the Lord knows where, have been located in a
camp near Rio. They have killed a bunch of people
with poison gas. It’s official. Get busy !”

It was Dick’s turn then, and he and the Head handed
out some home-truths to the rest of us, as we got
to work.

... I Get My Marching

Orders

TLT ERE again, is the scientifiction story par excellence.

-*■ If you have been looking for a red-blooded hair-raiser,
full of adventure, full of suspense, full of the most amazing
and novel situations, and real science — you need look no
further. “The World at Bay ” contains all of these and
more. In originality and sheer daring, this story stands in
a class by itself, and will be appreciated and accorded praise
by all of our readers, if we can judge by our past experience
with their likes and dislikes. This story is one of the best
•we have ever printed.

o

UR extraordinary
story was at first
received with dis-
belief, more or less humor-
ous ; but. as the news drib-
bled in from South Amer-
ica, doubt gave place to the
wildest speculations.

Of course, nobody knew
whence came these new terrors of the air, but plenty
of people pretended to know.

One clever daily proved to its own satisfaction that
the airplanes were manned by Japanese, who were
about to annex the southern continent.

There were rumors of a novel flying machine in-
vented by a young Samuri of Nagasaki. Other equally
reliable leaders of public opinion wrote of civilized
savages from the depths of the Amazon forests, and

liner, a hopeless derelict, with a load of dried and even of invaders from another planet.

678

A tiny black tube was projected over the edge of the hull and a stream of vivid violet light came from it. It played upon us, and upon the squirm-
ing captives below. . . * Every muscle relaxed under the influence of that deadly, paralyzing ray of light . . . and we fell headlong to the bottom

of the net, three more floundering bodies. , . ,

679

630

AMAZING STORIES

“The real mystery,” said Martin, “is this — that in
these days of news and travel, any unknown race
could exist — especially a race so advanced and yet so
hostile to the rest of humanity.”

There was no doubt about their hostility. No one
was allowed to approach their camp near Rio. They
killed or captured everyone who made the attempt.

A couple of bombing airplanes sent to investigate
were brought crashing to the ground in broad daylight
without any visible agency. The only survivor of the
wreck spoke vaguely of being dazzled by a beam of
pale light, and losing control of all his movements.

Twenty-four hours later the Head gave his orders.

“Better pack up your toothbrush and get, Harding.
The Brazilians are going to attack in force shortly, and
you might as well report on the affair at first hand.
Take Martin with you. Even if it should all be over
when you get there, you will be able to make a story
out of it. The boat’s a fast one, and leaves this after-
noon.” And the Head waved a fat hand grandilo-
quently. To send men. to the ends of the earth with a
word, to treat them as mere pawns in the great game
of life- — that was bliss to him.

As we steamed south we learned, per wireless, that
two of the strange airplanes had left the Brazilian camp,
flying eastward. Others had arrived from the south.
A night attack on the camp had been repulsed with
heavy loss. A day from Rio, we heard that shell fire
had brought down one of the hostile air-vessels, and
also that some of the latter had been seen near Cape-
town.

“All in the southern hemisphere, Max,” said Dick.
“What’s that mean?”

“The only theory I’ve got is that they are German
settlers in Brazil, who want to build up a great German
World State in South America. They have invented
a new poison gas and made a start.”

“Only Germans haven’t pasty white faces, and don’t
go about in heavy clothes in this climate.”

“Then where have they come from?”

“From somewhere on the Antarctic Continent, Max.
Where else is there any unmapped land big enough?
Even after Amundsen’s and Scott’s discoveries, there
is plenty of room there. And you have heard of the
theory of some French naturalists — that there was a
separate origin of life at each of the Poles.”

“Supposing that some remnant of the original South-
ern Race has been all these centuries developing, un-
known to us, on lines of progress quite different from
ours? If such a race has learned to fly, why should
they not wish to conquer the world for themselves?”

Dick’s idea made me feel rather uneasy, though I
scoffed at it. What if it should prove correct? What
if the earth were to be over-run by men possessing such
an awful weapon as their poison gas seemed to be?
What if our armies and navies proved unable to cope
with them?

If we had only known the truth — their real origin,
the menace of their cold hostility — we should not have
greeted so blithely the green-clad arms of Rio bay.

We entered that magnificent harbor, set in its fringe
of hills and studded with emerald islands, early in the

morning. Dawn had flung her mantle of glory over
the lovely city, had lit the sea behind us with a gloss
of glittering gold, made a shadow of Sugarloaf Moun-
tain a cone of blackness on the water. The white
houses rising out of the foliage caught the sun’s rays
horizontally, standing out like clear-cut cameos.

Beyond the denser zone, where the villas were more
spread out, a mistiness, a fog, a vapor, seemed to be
fighting back the light of day.

The waters of the bay were alive with craft of all
sorts and sizes, all hurrying seawards.

“Good God !” cried Dick, clutching my arm. "It’s
all true ! They are attacking the city now !”

The terrible sight that he pointed out with shaking
finger robbed me of words.

A great cloud of smoke was now rolling down the
hills, rolling to the sea, driven before a gentle land
breeze. It was a slowly moving mass of smoke-black
mist.

Fascinated, we watched its silent progress as it
drifted down the slopes towards the indented shore,
blotting out the city, avenue by avenue, street by street.

The magnificent Palace of San Christoval stood out
for a time, gleaming in sunlight as the advancing ten-
drils of the mist crept round it. The Church of Our
Glorious Lady also rose above that dead sea— for a
time. Then they were smothered and engulfed, and
were gone. Down the hills, filling up the valleys,
through the dense city to the very shore, came the
rolling fog. From somewhere inland came the crackle
of gun fire and rifle fire, and the bang of shells, but
these sounds of action quickly ceased.

Crowds lined the Great Promenade. Masses of men,
women and children, white, brown, black, came pour-
ing down the streets leading to the shore; and behind
them, in steady pursuit, the gloomy cloud. Behind the
cloud all was silence.

“Is it a nightmare, Dick ?” I cried. “Are we dream-
ing this horror?”

For answer came a raucous voice roaring through a
megaphone. The skipper of a tramp was hailing us.

“Beat it! Clear out! Slew her round, Boss!” he
roared. “The cursed brutes are poisoning the whole
shebang. Beat it ! Get !”

The voice trailed away to silence as the tramp, her
funnels pouring out thick volumes of vile smoke,
worked out seaward.

Our captain and pilot looked at each other. The
first-class passengers, alarmed, clamorous, crowded
near the bridge.

Was there any danger! Would it be safe to land?
What was happening? What ought to be done?

And while we chattered and shouted and questioned
helplessly, the men in authority consulted in low tones.
Were we to go on, face it, or should we show our heels?

The City of Silence

T HE suspense did not last long, for the peril
facing us was too real. The screw slowed, we
swung round, and turned back with the fleeing
tide of shipping. We fouled another vessel as we
turned, and ran down a fishing boat.

THE WORLD AT BAY

681

The black cloud, meantime, was rolling nearer and
nearer. Down to the water edge it came, flowing out
over the sea. As it passed over the few remaining
boats at the quays, the hubbub of human cries abruptly
ceased. The cloud smote them into stillness and came
billowing on in soft smoke waves, now fifty yards out
from shore.

And then, as we watched, fascinated, appalled, the
vapor slowly but visibly thinned, became filmy, trans-
parent, fading away into the air. A vivid, intermittent
stream of ghostly sparks had traversed the cloud — a
stream of sparks coming from a point among the dis-
tant hills. The welcome sight roused me from the un-
worthy stupor of fear, and steadied my brain.

“Where are you taking us, Captain?” I asked. “I
booked to Rio, and at Rio I land.”

“Are you mad, Mr. Harding? Did you come all
this way to commit suicide? I shall certainly not go
into port here. Wait till we get up to Campos; I’ll
land you there. I’ve the ship and all the other pas-
sengers to consider.”

“All the same, I’m going ashore now,” I said. “It’s
business — orders — no getting away from it.”

“Nothing doing,” he said grimly.

“Captain,” struck in Martin, “just get this fact; we
are going ashore, if we have to swim for it. The poison
cloud is drifting away already. For all we really know,
these people may just have been stupefied — they may
all recover presently.”

“Of course, being reporters — ” returned the skipper
with withering sarcasm. “Anyhow, it’s your own
funeral. If you care to buy one of our old boats—
by a miracle, we carry more than we need — you can
go. Only when you’re dead, don’t write home to your
news-rag and blame me.”

So we had our way, and the boat we bought suf-
ficed to land us near Da Gloria Point.

A few adventurous spirits among the passengers
were keen to join us, but we declined their company.
We were taking risks for business only.

A grim spectacle awaited us where we landed.
Shrunken bodies were lying in all sorts of attitudes —
just as they had been stricken down. The gas-cloud,
though thinning, still hung like a pall over much of
the city. The ghostly sparks no longer glittered, and
everything was uncannily quiet.

“Come along,” I said, seeing Dick fumbling in his
pockets. “We shall get some good copy, anyhow,” I
added with a shiver.

“I’ve brought a couple of gas-masks along,” he
said. “Believed in this business from the first, y’know.
And here’s a little tube of oxygen; I’ve got another.
Never know what may happen.”

Thus equipped, we began our exploration of the city
that lay so still under the hot sun. It was the silence
that got on our nerves first, even more than the passive
bodies in the streets and shops.

We had both been in France, remember. The bang
of guns, the riot of bursting shells, would have made
us feel at home. Here there was no sound at all.

There was no sign of the beings who had wrought
this havoc. Not a single airplane disturbed the seren-
ity of the clearing sky, as we penetrated into that city
of the dead.

The memory of it is fading, mercifully, or the full
recollection of the ghastly horrors of that walk would
rob life of all its joy. Men, women, children, Brazilian,
Spanish, Negro, Indian, German, lay about the streets
as the gas had overtaken them — some on the pavement,
some on the roadway, some in shops and houses, some
in the tram-cars. An auto, with five lifeless forms
sprawling upon its cushions, stood half in, half out of
the plate glass window of a fashionable store.

Death — for death it was, without the shadow of a
doubt — had been sudden. The prevalent expression
on all faces was that of frightened surprise. And
every one of these quiet thousands was shrunken and
shriveled to a skin-clothed skeleton. It was as though
the gas had withered them internally.

In less than an hour we had had enough and turned
back towards the shore. There was nothing to do, no
one to help. Some outlying parts of the city might have
escaped, but as a few coils of the gas still lingered to
landward, prudence urged retreat.

Five minutes after turning back, we met the first live
man. He came lurching out of a saloon, half-drunk
still — an Englishman, a typical Cockney.

“ ’As it gom ?” he asked. “Strike me pink if I stop
in this hole another bloomin’ day. Where did you pick
up your masks, chummies?”

“How did you escape?” snarled Dick. Dick has no
use for a boozer.

“Sees the bloomin’ cloud coming erlong, just like
one of the old London forgs,” explained the man.
“The Dagoes screamed like ’ell, and shouted that the
flyin’ devils was going to smother us all. So I waltzes
inside ’ere while they all run for shore, I jumps into the
cellar, bangs and bolts the door, jams the keyhole with
me ’ankercher, and samples the swipes they drink down
here. I drinks and waits, the row above stops dead ;
I waits and goes on drinkin’. Then I ’ears you talkin’,
and comes out. Gawd 1 Mean to say they’re all dead ?”

“It’s a city of the dead,” said I. “Come along
with us.”

“Show you a short cut out to the country,” hic-
coughed the man. “I’ve ’eard things ; I’ll show you.”

We looked at each other, and then, the tipsy Cockney
staggering between us, we turned about and made our
way inland, anxious to leave that charnel city behind
us. Feeling safer now, we took off our gas-masks

But it had not done with us yet. Passing a smart
confectionery shop, seemingly empty, it occurred to me
to appropriate food and drink. I pushed open the
swing door, had one terrible glimpse of the bodies on
the floor, among the chairs and little tables, and then
a wisp of the foul poison vapor, floating to the open
air, struck me in the face.

I gasped for breath, heard a sudden cry cut short,
stumbled forward, and fell down into the blackness of
oblivion.

682

AMAZING STORIES

The Battle

W HEN I came to myself, I was sitting up on the
pavement just outside the cafe. A queer odor
hung about and my two companions were grin-
ning with sudden relief. Dick was screwing on the
top of a little metal tube, which he then stowed away
in a vest pocket.

“Just a whiff of oxygen, old scout,” said he. “Good
thing I brought it along with me. You would have
been a goner if we hadn’t given you a dose instanter.”

“Gev me a turn, matey. Thought you was travelin’
west.”

The shock, added to action and fresh air, was rap-
idly sobering Harris, our Cockney friend. Although
feeling shaken and nervy, with great soreness about the
throat, I was quite able to get up and walk, and we
lost no time in resuming our march.

We went with masks held ready for use, and kept
our eyes skinned for every lurking shadow or patch of
darkness. Harris talked incessantly.

It seemed that the Brazilians had been slow to act
at first, and only sent a few air scouts to investigate
the hidden lair of the newcomers. These were quickly
put out of action by gas bombs fired from an almost
noiseless gun. Further attacks had all failed in the
same way, succeeding only in irritating the strangers.
The awful slaughter in the city was their answer.

“But they’re goin’ to be wiped out, me lads,” said
Harris. “I ain’t been long in this rummy ’ole, but I
made a few pals. Came across a Dago who’d been in
France. ’E’s in the army, and ’e told me only larst
night how they was agoin’ to give the blighters ’ell.
They're shifty coves — keeps movin’ their camp. The
Dagoes has therefore planted a few camerflarged heavy
guns nice and handy around their last place — and when
they starts to flit — blimy! it’ll be like a dream of the
fireworks we used to have round Wipers.”

His adjectives grew hotter. He swore — to keep his
courage up. We didn’t like him, but if he had a friend
in the army, he would be useful, so we went along
with him.

We came out of the death zone at last, out into the
open country, and were received with cordiality and
eager questioning by the people we met. We found
ourselves, as the first persons to come out alive, quite
important, and it was not long before we got in touch
with the army, and were in possession of permits to
visit the military zone inland.

We sent off our first message to the Scoop by an
officer of engineers who was on his way back to the
city to get the telegraph cables and wireless station to
work again. Then we went forward to the front lines,
where we were told all was in readiness to annihilate
the enemy, when they moved to the new camp, which
they had begun to construct in a hollow of the hills.

The smart Brazilian officers assured us, as they
smoked innumerable cigarettes, that the end was only
a question of stern patience. They had every sur-
rounding landmark “tapped,” and the invaders, who-
ever they were, would simply fly into a death-trap as

soon as they showed themselves. The country was
parked with guns, and when they were brought down,
the mystery of the origin of the strangers would be
solved.

So talked the soldiers, eager to avenge their beloved
city. We waited two days, and then — then we knew that
the peril would not pass so readily — then we began to
realize the danger that threatened the world.

It was early in the morning of the third day that
the cloud of black dots suddenly appeared in the sky
to westward. Bugles rang out, the gunners sprang to
their guns, all that hidden army of men in concealed
trenches waited for orders.

“Here they come ! Six, ten, twelve, twenty of
them!” cried Dick. “Why not pot them now?”

We were lying in the high grass, to rear of a masked
battery.

“Waitin’ to get ’em at close range, and make sure.
You’ll see fireworks d’reckly!” said Harris.

We had brought good field glasses, and, as the air-
planes approached, we could see that they were queer,
box-like structures, with screws fore and aft, and ris-
ing and falling wings. Underneath each machine, swing-
ing loosely from four cables, was a curious lattice-work
cage.

Came the tinkle of a telephone bell, and our battery
roared out its breath of flame. The air seemed full
of sound, and the white puffs of the bursting shells
dotted the sky.

“Fine ! We’ve winged a couple — no, three of ’em !”
I shouted. “Now for another round 1”

Another round was fired, but this time without re-
sult. The air was filled with bursting shells, but the
enemy had risen above them. Their vessels seemed to
leap upwards, and from each of the uninjured ones
came a tiny report, like the plop of a popgun. From
each of them came something that struck the ground,
burst with a dull, muffled bang, and became a rapidly
expanding cloud of thick billowy vapor. One fell
near us.

“The poison gas !” cried Dick. “No time to get
masks on. Run 1 Get into some hole 1”

We started, looking for a hollow, but the cloud was
swelling out faster than any man could go. Out of
the tail of my eye. as we plunged along, I glanced at
the gunners, standing grim and silent at their posts,
awaiting another word of command. The gas was roll-
ing along the ground like a liquid. I saw it reach the
horses tethered near the guns. They neighed, shivered,
and fell down, dead and blackened, as the cloud passed
over them.

It was close on our heels. Just ahead of its ad-
vancing billows, we dropped into a deep hole near a
watercourse. We sank deeply into soft, damp earth,
and drew pieces of turf and clumps of bush down to
cover us.

A piece of loose soil gave way and almost buried us
as we fumbled for our gas masks feverishly. Strug-
gling, hampered, frantic, we expected every moment
to be our last — every moment we expected the deadly
folds of that black cloud to envelop us.

THE WORLD AT BAY

683

The Fate of the Refugees

W E waited for death — and it didn’t come. We
breathed ; we lived. We were conscious, even
in the dreadful suspense, even in that smother-
ing hole, of a great silence above. No sound of guns,
or burst of shells, or drone of airplanes, or echo of a
human voice, came down to us there. It was as though
we were deaf. It was as awful as the silence of the
dead city by the sea.

How long we waited I can’t tell. It was thousands
of years, perhaps. And then came a vivid flare of
light, the rolling crash of thunder, a deluge of rain,
and a fierce gale that whistled shrilly through the
long grass.

Tearing off my ill-adjusted, vile-smelling gas-mask,
I stood up.

“’I’m for the fresh air!” I shouted.

“Same here,” said Dick, and we scrambled out of the
hole into the free, open sunlight that shone between
the thunder clouds and sparkled on the drenching rain.

The storm had saved us. The gale had torn a path-
way through the poison cloud and the rain was dis-
persing it. We stood in a sort of clear land of rain-
washed atmosphere. Not an airplane was to be seen.

“Wonder whether the Dagoes got ’em all?” mused
Dick. “And I say, old man, where’s our Cockney
friend?”

We had reached the nearest hidden battery by now,
and I pointed to the silent tube screened under the
bushes. A crumpled, shriveled form lay under the
carriage — our London acquaintance, whom we had
completely forgotten in our own panicky flight. And
round the gun lay every man and horse — dead.

“There’s the answer to your questions, old man,”
said I. “The fiends have simply poisoned everybody
and everything, and cleared away. We are the only
survivors, as we should find if we hunted up all the
batteries. That hole and the storm saved us by a
lucky chance. And my advice now is — get away north
to the river and get some sort of boat and clear out.
This country is damned.”

“The wisdom of Solomon,” answered Martin, the
irrespressible. “I should think so, indeed. It’s a good
thing we are journalists and take all this in the day’s
work.”

There’s no need to go into detail about our trek
over that stricken country; no need to tell you how
we wore our boots out, got lost, went hungry and
secured food; how we hid from sight whenever an
enemy airplane went swishing overhead; how we got
over the mountains at last, and, dog-tired, in rags,
but hopeful still, reached a rotten little wharf on the
Parahyba River.

“If we’re still in luck, we shall get a lift from here
down to S. Joao de Praia,” said Dick. “And from
there by sea somewhere else. And I think we are in
luck. That looks like the smoke of a steamer over the
trees, and there’s a considerable racket going on. An-
other sprint and we’ll make it.”

We made the wharf, saw the steamer, and our hearts
sank.

“An old stern-paddler— junk when Columbus
sailed !” I groaned. “A wood-burner, with boilers
about to burst. And full-chock full of yelling Dagoes !”

On the rotting wharf, struggling, surging, fighting
to gain the gangway that the few sailors were trying
to cast off, was a crowd of at least two hundred.

“Come on into the jamboree, old scout,” shouted
Dick. “Our only chance, if we don’t want to be
stranded here. Come on!”

We dashed into the yelling mob, and joined in the
fray. Civilization had worn thin on us those last few
days. We reached the gangway— which was already
loosened, and swaying— as a sharp, whip-like report
rang out.

The man in front of me threw up his arms and fell
sideways, slipped under the chain and splashed down
into the muddy river.

“Any more for the same?” roared the captain of the
rickety old tub. “Lower away there.”

The gangway gave a sickening lurch as the paddle
began to churn the water. Still the frantic mob pressed
on, and we were pushed forward willy-nilly. A woman
with torn dress, blazing eyes, her face pale yet deter-
mined, was thrust into my arms.

I should not have noticed her, in the fierce frenzy
of that moment, but she panted jerkily:

“Mr. Harding !”

I turned, clutching my friend by the arm.

“Rita Courtney, by all the gods, Dick ! We’ve simply
got to go aboard now !”

The gangway hung by a few inches on the tilting
deck. We pushed across, laid hands on the ship’s rail,
Rita between lis. Women screamed, men swore and
kicked, and flourished knives. Even in the dense mass
of people that packed the deck, there seemed a slight
inward pressure, as though to make room for just a
few more.

The angry skipper — a lean fellow countryman —
lifted his revolver again.

“Any more for the same?” he repeated. “Stand
back there! Sheer off!”

We made a last supreme effort, we three, and, as
the vessel moved, felt the gangway drop from under
our feet. The skipper’s gun barked, something sang
past my left ear, and with a wild scramble, we were
aboard, groveling in a heap on the dirty deck.

With a hoarse curse, the captain threw down his gun
in furious resignation. The creaky tub, low down in
the brown water, churned her way out towards mid-
steam slowly, smothering us with a reek of acrid wood
smoke.

From the wretches left on the wharf came howls of
rage and despair, that suddenly rose to a crescendo of
pandemonium.

“And no wonder,” said Rita Courtney. “Look there !
One of the strange airplanes, coming fast, swooping
low !”

And as she spoke, the old tub, overloaded with her
swarming human cargo, lurched heavily, ran into a
mudbank, and there wedged herself fast.

684

AMAZING STORIES

We Are Taken Prisoners

I N a moment the vessel became an inferno. Every-
one seemed to go mad. The skipper roared orders
that no one obeyed.

In spite of vigorous churning of the paddles in the
mud, we stuck. The crew rushed up from below, the
passengers fought them for the two boats, and scores
leaped overboard. Murder was done, and some of the
murderers, in the first boat that got away, met their
punishment early. Overweighted, the leaky craft cap-
sized, and the snouts of a couple of caymans — the
South American alligator — quickly appeared.

Protecting Rita from the sight as best we could, we
remained on the top deck forward, watching the near-
ing airplane. It was close, flying low.

As it passed over the crowd, already scattering in
all directions from the landing-stage, we saw that it
was trailing a kind of coarse-meshed drag-net along
die ground, the meshes of which glittered like silver
in the sun. Caught in the net, many of the scared folk
were picked up. They were netted as men net fish.

“Horrible!” cried Rita. “Whatever do they want
to take people alive for? See, they are dragging them
up into the big cage that hangs loosely underneath their
vessel !”

“Yes, and, worse still, they are now making for us,
and letting the net down again,” said I. “Looks as if
they wanted to bag the lot of us !”

“Let them come, that’s all!” shouted Dick eagerly.
“If we can only get to close quarters, they won’t be able
to use their poison gas, and we can account for a few
of them.”

He rushed off to try to get the skipper’s aid, and he,
with two or three men who hadn’t quite lost their wits,
stood by for the fray. If we could only get hold of that
net, make it fast, and use it as a ladder to climb up into
the strange craft —

If only we could capture this strange vessel, how dif-
ferent might have been the history of the world after-
wards !

The swinging metallic net came nearer and nearer,
lower and lower. We could now see the airplane
clearly, could note the slightly undulating wings, the
humming screws. Over the edge of the box-like hull
protruded several round heads, peering down at us
through huge dark goggles.

I wonder that no one in our excited crowd fired up
at the grotesque heads, but we were all, in truth, in
the grip of fascinated terror. Lower, nearer, and
the front of the open net touched our deck. With
chains, ropes, hooks, we fell upon it, lashing and fasten-
ing it down to stanchions, rails, and ring bolts. The
slack of it passed over and hung astern, a glittering
tangle of confusion, in which, with piteous cries, the
people who had been picked off the wharf struggled
helplessly.

We raised a cheer, and, led by the skipper and our
three selves, we began to climb up the coarse meshes
towards the airplane. Grunts and cries came from the
staring heads above, and a yelp of rage as some one
fired pointblank upwards. What looked like a squat

bundle of rags pitched out and fell overboard among
the caymans.

“One to us !” cried Rita.

Even in that frantic moment I found time to glance
into the girl’s clear grey eyes and to thank God that
she was the bravest and coolest woman I had ever
known. We were not prepared for what followed. We
did not then know what diabolical devices these strange
beings had at their command.

The airplane suddenly leaped into the air. It rose
vertically, with a tremendous roaring effort. The net
righted, tore itself free, tore out of all the bolts and
fastenings, snapping our cords and chains like cotton.

The jerk threw the steamer over on her broadside,
the crew slithering down the sloping deck into the river
mud. Most of those who were climbing up were
shaken off, but we three managed to keep our footing,
hanging on by feet and hands and teeth.

It was an awful experience, hanging there in the
open network, swinging to and fro, as the strange craft
shot upwards.

Looking down, the sinking river steamer, with wrig-
gling black dots upon and around her, seemed like a
child’s toy. At the bottom of the net still tumbled
and struggled the dozen or so victims caught ashore.

“What next ?” cried Dick. “We can’t hang on here
forever. And I don’t fancy going down into that
bunch.”

“Excelsior!” cried Rita. “Let’s go on and get to
close quarters.”

It was not to be. A tiny black tube was projected
over the edge of the hull, and a stream of vivid violet
light came from it. It played upon us, and upon the
squirming captives below. Their outcries ceased, and
as for ourselves —

I only know that it seemed as if all will and volition
had left me. I did not lose consciousness, but every
nerve and muscle relaxed under the influence of that
deadly, paralyzing ray of light.

We fell headlong to the bottom of the net, three
more floundering bodies added to the floundering,
struggling mass.

Then the net began to rise, drawn up from one side.
I thought grimly of the fish I had seen hauled up and
emptied out on the deck of a North Sea trawler. We
were the “catch” this time. What was to be our fate?
For what purpose were these mysterious, inexplicable
people making us prisoners?

The Mystery Deepens

H ELPLESS, quiescent, save for the uncontrol-
able and spasmodic movements of our limbs,
we rolled over and over as the net rose.

Still bathed in the ghostly glow of the strange, para-
lyzing radiance, we saw one side of the great cage of
metal bars swing down.

A final jerk, and we were all flung pell-mell into the
cage. The net fell away, the cage door clanged shut,
and the violet light was switched off. We rose dizzily
to our feet, shaken and trembling.

“What next?” said Dick, in a husky voice. “What
are they going to do with us? They seem to be in-

THE WORLD AT BAY

685

fernally clever and scientific. This machine of theirs
is a genuine helicopter — it jumped away from the old
tub down in the mud there. I wonder — you never
know what these scientific beggars will do in cold
blood!”

“Don’t, Mr. Martin,” said Rita, shuddering. “Don’t
say it. If the worst comes to the worst, we must
face it bravely ; but till it comes, let us ‘carry on.’ Be-
sides, what wonderful luck for three daring journal-
ists ! Here we are, en route — for we are moving now
— for the headquarters of these strange enemies of
humanity. We shall see them at dose quarters, find
out all about them, and then escape with our news !”

She laughed bravely, though there was a hint of
tears in her beautiful eyes, and, putting out her slim,
cool hands, she gripped ours nervously.

It was in that moment, for the first time since I had
known Rita Courtney, that I felt something fresh,
something strange, in our friendship.

I had always admired her, in spite of my old-fash-
ioned ideas on woman’s true sphere of life. In that
moment I knew, “beyond a peradventure,” that I should
always look upon her with different eyes.

We were now traveling fast to the southward, and
though in the tropical belt, the wind that tore through
the open cage was icy cold, chilling us to the bone. We
huddled together for warmth, and tried by our exam-
ple to calm the fears of our fellow-victims.

Soon we lost sight of the river, and leaving the hills
near Rio on our left hand, swerved westward.

“Going, I should guess, at least 150 per hour,” said
Dick. “Making for the depths of the great Amazon
jungle, if they keep on this curve. Thousands of
square miles of unexplored and impossible forest there,
you know. What a story — if ever we get back!”

If ever we get back!

For a couple of hours, the vessel continued her steady
flight, her screws and unseen engines working with a
ceaseless, changeless, droning noise.

At the end of two hours, the ship came to land in
a clearing of the forest, where two other machines
rested. In this camp, within a stockade, were about
fifty more prisoners. Our captors herded us together,
turned on the paralyzing light, and two of them sol-
emnly examined us.

It was a maddening experience. Helpless, inert,
capable only of seeing, understanding, fearing, we were
passed in review like so many cattle, so much livestock.
They prodded us, turned us over, emptied our pockets,
annexed our revolvers, knives and watches, and finally
sorted us into two lots.

We three, fortunately, were left together in the sec-
tion that seemed to give our captors most satisfaction.
The other section, with the violet ray cut off, were
driven out of the stockade, out of the camp and into
the jungle. When we were freed from the paralysis
of our fear, we were given a good meal of native
bread with water to drink.

When night came, we were still prisoners, and had
given up all hope of immediate escape.

“Have you any idea why we have been kept here
and the others weeded out ?” asked Rita. “Never mind

me, tell me exactly what you think, Mr. Harding.”

“I can see only one indication of what determined
their choice,” said I. “Those of us who are left are
of different races, of both sexes, some tall, some short ;
but — but — we are all healthy-looking, well built,
strong.”

“Looks as if they were keeping us to breed a race
of slave-workers — or else they’re cannibals,” blurted
out Dick. “Yet they were eating fruits and nuts just
now. I give up the riddle ; it’s hopeless.”

It certainly seemed hopeless to gather even from
keen observation of these strange beings at close quar-
ters, who they were and whence they had come. They
certainly did not feed like cannibals; they did not
appear to eat meat of any kind.

They were squat and coarse-looking, but their eyes
— as we saw when one removed his huge goggles —
were large, luminous, and intelligently cunning. They
were clad in many heavy wrappings of dark material,
as though even in this hot climate they were cold.

I leave you to guess our anxieties and discomforts
during the next day and night, herded together as we
were, forty of us, in an open space, exposed to the
tropic sun, tormented by flies and mosquitoes, and
ever dreading the attack of termite ants.

It was with relief, then, that we welcomed symptoms
of activity the following morning. By signs we were
told to re-enter the cage under the airship that had
brought us, and since there was no help for it, we
meekly obeyed.

The vessel rose, turned north-westward, and, after a
long flight over miles and miles of steaming jungle,
spread out beneath us like a vast green sea, we saw
that we were approaching an area of blackness, an
irregular circle torn out of the forest. It was like a
huge wound in the velvety green sea.

The airplane slowed, but did not descend until we
were over the center of this great pit or crater, and
then stopped.

“A volcanic outburst!” said Rita, as we stared to-
gether down into the great gulf below. “It must have
been an enormous eruption. There are miles of stones
and ashes and blackened timber around it. And see!
Parts of the pit are smoking yet, though in the middle
it is quite black. And — oh! — let me hold your arm,
Mr. Harding — we are falling, falling !”

We clutched each other nervously. The floor of the
cage seemed to be dropping from under our feet. The
dense black center of the plumbless pit appeared to be
rushing upwards to swallow us in its black and smok-
ing heart.

The airplane was falling like a stone.

Into the Underworld

ALLING — falling — into the black core of that
great wound in the ocean of green forest.

We clutched one another fast, we three; and
from Rita’s clear eyes flashed a message to mine. It
said, as plainly as spoken speech:

“Be brave, friend. Let us be glad that we are to-
gether, even if the worst comes.”

For already I knew that I had won the friendship

686

AMAZING STORIES

and esteem of this great woman. To have won even
so much, it seemed to me, in that moment of helpless
fear, was well worth having lived for.

Down — down — down into the dark pit. The rough,
ragged edges of the vast hole rose up and were around
us ; we were dropping down a wide well of increasing
shadow.

And then, as suddenly as that descent had begun, it
stopped. The floor of our cage once more felt solid
under our feet, the screws of the vessel began to throb.

“We are going down slowly, under control,” said
Dick. “These chaps are clever. Wonder what there
is at the bottom ? Must be a deucedly deep mine.”

After a slow fall that seemed to last for ages, the
darkness grew to a dim twilight, and just as the re-
ceding walls of the rough shaft vanished out of sight
into the somber shadows of a monstrous cavern, the
airplane came to rest on the rocky floor.

The light, which was phosphorescent, and seemed not
to come from any visible source, but to pulse through
the very air in waves of varied intensity, grew and
grew, until we were able to see the contours of objects
around us.

The cave was full of active life; groups of the
strange folk were hurrying about, a number of air-
vessels, similar to our own, were at rest near the bot-
tom of the great shaft. . Looking upwards, as we
stepped out of our opened cage, we saw what appeared
to be a bright, white star in the rocky firmament. It
was the light of day.

“I think we have come down deeper into the earth
than any mine that was ever sunk,” said Rita. “Miles
down, I believe. And these people may be dwellers in
an underworld of which we on the earth’s crust have
had no previous knowledge.”

“But why aren’t we boiled and roasted, Miss Court-
ney? You know very well that the heat increases
rapidly as we dig into the earth, and that in the very
deepest mines work is almost impossible.”

“Of course, Mr. Martin, I can’t answer you. It is
all amazing. I happened to notice the time by my wrist
watch when we began to fall, and I looked at it just
now. It is four and a half minutes ago. Work it out;
I’m too lazy. The distance fallen must be enormous.
Look at these great openings all around us, receding
into infinity, apparently. The floor goes down, down
everywhere ; the roof can scarcely be seen.

“Look at the people — if one is to call them people.
Down here, where it is very warm, as you must admit,
they have discarded their thick clothes and dark gog-
gles, which, I am sure, they only wore above ground
to protect themselves from the chill and sunshine of
our world. They move about here, in this funny waver-
ing, ‘all-over’ sort of flickering glow, as if they were
at home.”

And very queer objects the creatures seemed on
closer inspection. They were short and squat, ungainly
of limb, long-armed like apes, and ghastly pale of
skin, as though wilted and bleached by the hot, humid
air. They wore no head-coverings on their short, fuzzy
mops of brownish hair. One rough, coarse, ill-fitting

robe of dark material, reaching to the knees, and a
sort of sandals on the feet, completed their wardrobe.
Indeed, their climate, warm and equable, made any-
thing more needless.

As to the sexes, they appeared to dress exactly alike,
and one could only distinguish them by the softer,
more curving contour of the bare limbs, and that
“something different” in the eyes that baffles all analy-
sis of words.

They looked what they were — creatures of darkness,
born in everlasting gloom, and yet creatures somehow
akin to humanity.

“If Miss Courtney’s amazing theory is correct,” said
I, “that hole up thefe which looked like the result of
a terrific explosion, was, in fact, just that. These
Troglodytes have bored and burst their way out and
into our world.”

“Certainly looks like it, old man,” Dick grunted.
“But you two run on so fast. It’s rather a big idea to
get into one’s head. One wants more detail, more
information.”

“Which one and all of us seem likely to get pretty
soon,” said Rita. “This is where we ‘move on,’ where
we begin to have some idea what they have captured
us for.” As she spoke, a squat figure approached and
pointed at us the black metal tube he carried, and then
onwards towards a gaping dim cavern on the right.

“That means march, and don’t stop to argue!” I
said. “He has a paralysis gun there, and if we don’t
go without, we shall go with it.”

Our motley band of dazed and scared humans ac-
cepted my lead, and, preceded by some and followed by
others of the gnomes, we tramped wearily into the fluc-
tuating lights and shadows of one of the vast corridors
of that astounding underworld.

“We mustn’t lose heart; we mustn’t lose our wits,”
said Rita. “It may be that we shall find out how and
where they make their poison gas. We may be able
to escape, or we may at the least be able to destroy
their works.”

That was Rita. She never studied herself, never
admitted impossibilities ; she would be game to the
end, would never lose hope while life remained. Her
words inspired us, but they also brought home to us
the strange facts of our horrible position.

Here we were, miles below the surface, being driven
along a shadowy tunnel by a squad of creatures,
scarcely human, towards a fate of which we knew
nothing. No wonder some of our party whimpered
as they stumbled along, while others cursed.

The cavern widened as we went on, its floor ever
descending, its roof already lost in gloom. From
somewhere out of the darkness a stream of running
water came alongside — a stream that ran with an eerie
gurgling, and whose ripples were lit with a phospor-
escent glow. It ran our way, and presently we came
to a barge, upon which we embarked.

There was a motor of some kind at the stern, and
under its power we went downwards and onwards
through the pulsating light.

At last we seemed to have come into another world.

THE WORLD AT BAY

687

Walls and roof had vanished, and our boat was cross-
ing the glowing waters of a seemingly shoreless sea.
But right ahead was a curious red glow, that broadened
and reddened as we neared. A grey cloud of fitfully
lit smoke hung over it. A murmur of sound, that grew
to a clamor, a roar, a grating discord of noise, struck
upon our ears.

And then Something came out of the red-lit smoke
bank and swept down towards our boat. Something
that flapped noisily, like a monstrous bird of prey.
From beneath it trailed a mesh of glittering metal.

“Another airplane with a net for us!” cried Dick.
“O Lord, how long?”

The net fell alongside. We were bidden, by signs, to
jump in. There was nothing to do but obey.

The Republic of the Slaves

I F ever there was a nightmare journey, that second
flight through the semi-darkness was the worst
nightmare of all. Once we were meshed in the
net — about thirty of us now — the airplane continued
her motion.

They did not trouble to put us into a cage, but let
us hang there, swinging to and fro, as the vessel, flying
very low, winged her way along the shadowy corridors
and twisting tunnels of the underworld.

Down, still down, we went, now following running
water, now traversing long passages where the only
sound was the hum of the vessel’s machinery and the
reverberating echo that followed us continually. Now
and then came flashes of a stronger light from some
side opening, or in a wider space ; sometimes, as we
swung and twirled in the net, we caught glimpses of
great rough columns of unhewn rock — the granite
props and pillars of this labyrinth, this honeycombed
nether universe.

We were now past speech ; words had failed us.

At last the machine stopped, hovering just above
ground in a ball of huge dimensions. We had just
time to note that this great space was fairly well lit,
had a stream running around it in a wide loop, and
was dotted with moving figures and a cluster of huts,
when the net was opened and we were incontinently
spilled out, pell-mell

It was awkward, ignominious, but no bones were
broken. We stretched our cramped limbs and looked
about us. One of the gnomes clambered down out of
the machine, and, coming to each one of us in turn,
touched us on the head, one by one, each time giving a
queer sort of double grunt.

“Our names down here!” cried Rita, repeating the
sounds as she touched each of us.

It was a flash of inspiration. The strange being
wrinkled up his pasty face in a palpable grin of satisfac-
tion, and went over us all again. We imitated the
sounds in each case as well as we could, and his satis-
faction deepened.

Then he clambered back, and the airplane vanished
into the shadows.

“And here we are — and where are we?” said Dick.
“Better ask some of the people here,” remarked Rita,

thoughtfully. “They are human, at any rate. Prisoners
brought here as we were, I fear.”

There were hundreds of them, but only a group of
four persons appeared to have taken any interest in
our arrival. These four were fellow countrymen, we
saw at once, and their dress had evidently been expen-
sive in material and cut, though they were as ragged
and soiled and disheveled as ourselves.

The foremost — a tall man — lifted a battered hat as
he advanced, and Rita suddenly ran forward with a
glad little cry of surprise and welcome.

“John!” she said.

“Rita!” he cried. “You here? What bad or good
fortune brought you?”

“Duty, business, John. The same as yours, I ex-
pect. Mr. Harding, Mr. Martin, let me introduce my
dear friend, John Rixon. You’ve read lots of his
articles. He’s ‘Arcturus’ of the Mercury; but few
people know it.”

Dick greeted the big man genially enough, but I
am afraid I was lacking in genuine warmth. He was
Rita’s “dear friend.” She called him “John”; I was
only “Mr. Harding.” And even down there, among
the captives marooned in that twilight cavern, one
could not but sense the man’s force of character, his
•fascinating personality, his cheery optimism, his charm.

My heart, unreasonably, became as heavy as lead.

“I’m afraid I can’t claim that I’m here all in the
day’s work, friends,” he replied. “Fact is, I was on
holiday up country from Rio when these beggars first
burst out from under, and I was in one of their earli-
est ‘bags.’ They yanked me and a few more down
here, and have been bringing extra comrades every day
since.

“I never expected to see you, Rita. Tell me how
you were caught — -I hope the fiends haven’t penetrated
far yet ! And then I’ll introduce you to a few friends
of mine who are bossing our little Slave Republic.”

“It’s a long story, John. Briefly, we came out after
copy. These friends of mine were in time to see nearly
all Rio wiped out by poison gas, ran across me in their
subsequent travels, and we were captured together. As
far as we know, these Troglodytes haven’t yet been
seen north of the equator.

“And now tell us what you mean by your Slave
Republic. How many prisoners are there? What do
they want us for?”

A very queer expression passed John Rixon’s strong
face.

“I'll answer your last question first,” he said. “They
want us — -they need us — to work. That’s why we call
ourselves the Slaves. There are about seven or eight
hundred of us here in camp — at present. There have
been more, a lot more . . . “Many nationalities; quite
half of us are brown or black. A party of us decided
to run this show on some sort of basis of law and
order. Oh, we have quite satisfied ourselves that there
is no way out. We have a sort of government — I’m
President, as it happens — police, commissariat, news
service, medical service, sanitation, and so forth. The
idea is to keep people occupied, not to let them think
too much.

688

AMAZING STORIES

“What do we eat, eh? Well, M., there you touch a
tender spot. The water is fairly good to drink, though
never cool and refreshing. Some food is brought down
from the upper world with every ‘bag’ of new slaves ;
our staff of life is a vile concoction these beggars eat
themselves — a sort of black, sticky, jaw-aching stuff
that I believe is really chemical food — a manufactured
article. It disagrees with all of us, more or less. But,
of course, that doesn’t matter much . . .”

H E stopped abruptly, as though he had said more
than he intended, and his face wore a grim look.
“John,” said Rita, firmly, looking him straight in
the eyes, “why doesn’t it matter about the food ? What
is this ‘work’ that they want us for? Tell us the
worst at once.”

John Rixon looked uncomfortable, and turned ap-
pealingly to Dick and myself.

“Don’t take my friends aside and whisper to them;
don’t tell them that you want to keep the horrid truth
from me as long as you can,” said Rita, sternly. “I’m
here and I want to know. I must know.”

“Perhaps you are right, after all. There isn’t a
braver woman breathing, I believe. Well, the fact
is they need forced labour to do their dangerous and
unhealthy work. Farther on, miles deeper down, there
are great mines, rich in many wonderful substances.
The heat, of course, is terrific, but not nearly as much
as the theory of a central glowing nucleus to the earth
supposes. It is in these deep mines that we are to
work. Almost as fast as prisoners are brought from
the upper world, some of us are sent below. They
pick us out at random, and we can only wait.”

“That’s why they sorted us out in the jungle,” said
Dick. “They only make permanent prisoners of the
strong and able-bodied. But what a fate!”

“Have you seen any of the mine-workers?”

“I have Rita. Out of the two hundred who have
been taken away from us since I came here, three per-
sons have returned. They died within a few hours.”

“But no doubt they told you something about the
work?” I asked.

“They did, Mr. Harding.”

Rixon spoke slowly, as though every word were
being dragged from him. Rita gave him no quarter.

“What did they tell you? What sort of mines are
these? What do they bring out of them?”

“There are two great working galleries, I under-
stand, at different levels. The upper mines are where
they dig out the material from which is manufactured
the poison gas. The crude ofe itself is poisonous to
the touch, and shrivels up every worker to a living —
and then to a dying — skeleton within a few months. I
gather that these upper mines have previously been
worked by criminals. From what one of our fellows
told me, it seems probable that there has been a lot
of trouble and fighting amongst these underground
folks, and the losers in their wars have had to do slave
work for the victors. But the supply has run short,
and this is where we come in.”

“I see,” said Rita. “Driven by necessity, they have
burst a way up into our outer world to find a new

supply of slaves. And what a supply they will have
if they conquer 1 It’s awful, horrible !”

"It makes it worse still to think that we have to die
down here in working to help conquer the world,” said
Dick. “If we must die, in any case, why can’t we all
go on hunger-strike — just lie down and die without
working ?”

“We tried that,” replied Rixon. “It was the logical
thing to do. But we couldn’t carry it out. Many of
our people hadn’t the stamina. And when it came to
being paralyzed and — yes, I may as well tell you — a
few of us were tortured, we gave up that game. We
can only make the best of our position, keep busy and
sane as long as possible, and hope for the best.”

“And what about the deepest mines of all? You
haven’t told us about them. You are still keeping
something back, John?”

‘‘Have you noticed the motors on their airplanes —
the motor on the boat that brought you down the
stream?” was Rixon’s response. “Did you see what
small engines they are, what little space they have for
storing fuel, and yet how powerful they are? They
are simply radium engines. Deep down in the earth,
these underground dwellers have discovered radio-
active substances in bulk, and have learned how to
use them.

“Those deep mines, where any day any of us may be
taken to work, are radium mines. Now do you wonder
they require slaves?”

A horrified silence fell upon us.

Radium mines — where the rocks were emitting
invisible and harmful emanations ; where bodies would
rot and waste away. Intrepid scientists, using only
minute quantities of radium, have died painful deaths
in consequence. And in these deep mines where we
must work, this strange and terrible material would
be the very stuff we should delve for !

Live! It would be life worse than death. Rixon
roused us from our stupor of terror.

“Come along,” he said sharply. “You insisted on
knowing, and now your curiosity is satisfied, you must
learn your places here, and find out how you can help
me in keeping order and sanity. First, I’ll introduce
you to our Chief of Food Supplies.”

We followed Rixon listlessly. Nothing seemed to
matter, in view of what we had just learned.

And yet, so strange and complex is human nature, so
easily can the human mind adapt itself to circumstances,
so important can trivial details appear, that it was
Rixon’s mere presence that I resented more than any-
thing else.

He assumed a proprietary air over Rita, a familiarity
that she seemed to enjoy — or so I bitterly told myself.

Then fatigue and hunger reasserted themselves. We
ate the food provided for us, nauseous though the
black stuff was, and settled down to rest in the rough
huts allotted to our use.

“A kind of warm moisture falls at times from the
unseen cavern-roof,” explained Rixon. “That’s why
we built these shelters to sleep in. Of course, there’s
no difference between night and day down here, but
a few of us have kept our watches going, and one fellow

THE WORLD AT BAY

689

fortunately brought a motor-horn with him. We bugle
you all up at eight-thirty sharp.”

There are limits to human endurance, human capacity
for wonder, fear or despair. We slept soundly in that
warm atmosphere till bugle-call.

We came out of our huts to see a couple of small
airplanes, with empty nets, hovering over the camp.
One was preparing to ground.

“They have come for a quota of slaves for the
mines,” said a man at my elbow. “Wonder who is
for it to-day? Will it be my turn?”

He spoke with fatalistic listlessness, with the dull
apathy that fell upon most of the slaves.

A dozen of the Troglodytes from the vessel now
at rest got out and walked rapidly in our direction.
They seemed to single out our little group for their
first attentions.

Were we to be sent to our living deaths so soon?

A Respite and Discoveries

I WAS near Rita, and her hand sought mine in a
friendly grasp. No doubt, I thought, she would
have gone to John Rixon in that moment of criti-
cal suspense, had he been in my place.

Well, what did it matter? Friendship or love, was
it not all the same down here, where our lives were
only the lives of slaves doomed to perish in the radium
mines? Yet, hand in hand, we waited to learn our
fate.

By signs and gestures, the Troglodytes motioned us
towards the hanging nets, rounding up a group of about
twenty of us. Rita and I were amongst the batch, but
for some obscure reason Rixon and Dick were rejected.
Our masters, perhaps, sensed John Rixon’s authori-
tative rank and wished to keep him in position, and Dick
was certainly looking rather seedy, lacking the fresh
air and exercise of which he was always so fond.

We were just below the nearest airplane, when one
of the crew suddenly leapt out and ran towards us,
grunting and yelling angrily.

He was evidently somebody in authority, and the
other hung about shamefacedly, sullenly, whilst he har-
rangued them, pointing frequently to Rita and myself.
In the end we were separated from the rest of our
companions and motioned back towards our sleeping
places.

We saw the others whisked away to their fatal work,
leaving the Troglodyte who had rescued us in our camp.

“These beings seem so fearfully alike in their ugli-
ness,” said Rita, “or I should feel inclined to suggest
that this gentleman, who is looking over us so critically,
is the one who gave us our names yesterday. I’ll try
him with them.”

She repeated the queer gutteral sounds slowly, indi-
cating each of us in turn. The Troglodyte’s pasty
white face wrinkled into a hideous grin of satisfaction,
and we recognized him.

“It’s our tutor, all right, Mr. Harding, and that’s
why he rescued us, I do believe! He is going to be
our tutor, our teacher. He thinks we showed our
cleverness in picking up and remembering our names.
After all, it will make things easier for them if they

can communicate with us, talk to us. It will be easier
to order us about, allocate work, and so on.”

“Yes,” said I, “and if you are right, there is more
to it than that. They want to know something about
the outer world, its size, population, and so forth.”

“And we want to know about their world, Mr. Hard-
ing. We want to know their plans, and find out all
we can about their resources. This is our greatest
opportunity. I’m going to be a willing pupil ; I'm
going to smile on this white-faced goblin.”

To cut a long story short, Rita was, as usual, correct.
Her woman’s intuition had divined the truth, while
mine was still groping in the shadows of mystery and
surmise.

The Troglodyte, whose name was Ulf, took our
education in hand eagerly, pleased to find such ready
and cheerful scholars. He repeated our names again
and again, and then, pointing at them, named other
objects — the ground, the roof, the stream of water,
and so on. John Rixon and Dick, welcoming us as
though we had been delivered from the very jaws of
death, joined in and helped.

After a couple of hours of this strenuous mental
work, we felt that we had made a beginning of under-
standing the primitive language of the Troglodytes.

And Troglodytes, for want of a better term, I shall
continue to call these dwellers in the earth.

For several weeks we four met our tutor daily, and
in spite of our dismal life and our repugnance to the
tribe, began to feel some slight regard for him. He
had, as Dick observed, glimmerings of humanity and
yearnings for culture; he was as eager to learn from
us and of us, as we were to learn from the Troglodytes
and about them ; he even admired Rita’s beauty and
courage in a clumsy and evidently quite sexless way.

So adaptable is the human mind, that we began to
get used to our strange position — to everything except
the food — and even to feel a sense of personal security.
We felt ourselves specially favored by our grotesque
masters and seemed in no danger of going down into
the dreaded radium mines.

As the Troglodytes knew that escape was impossible,
they allowed us to travel about in that strange under-
world, questioning, looking, learning. We went mostly
alone, and would meet later to compare our impressions.

“As far as I can make out,” said John Rixon, after
a long absence, “this underground world is not one
great cavity, but a tremendous series of great caves,
not many of them as large as our camp site here. It
is more like living in the middle of a hard sponge 1 The
caverns extend for hundreds of miles and go down to
a tremendous depth.”

“And I’ve found that there’s a great circulation of
water — hot springs, etc., heated from the still hotter
area under the caverns,” said Rita. “Fve taken a trip
on one of their small airplanes. I’ve seen their big-
gest settlement, seen the entrance to the mines, seen
them making the poison gas. They seem wonderfully
clever in chemistry and mechanics. The phosphorescent
light for instance, is purely artificial.”

“It’s been easy for them in many ways,” Dick re-
marked. “The earth is full of strange elements and

690

AMAZING STORIES

gases down here, and they have spent all their lives in
burrowing and experimenting for goodness knows how
many thousands of years. Think of having radium in
chunks ! No wonder they can fly with engines that
only need one filling of fuel in a lifetime!”

They looked at me inquiringly. I had not contributed
anything to the general stock of knowledge for several
days. Rita, in particular, seemed waiting for me to
speak. It was as though, for some reason, she wished
me to “make good,” to show that I was not less helpful
than the others.

“I’ve been back to the great hole in the earth down
which we came,” I said. “I’ve had the chance to exam-
ine one of their outgoing airplanes. By good fortune,
I happened to be left alone for half an hour.”

“Yes?”

Rita bent towards me, her lips parted, her eyes
shining.

“Yes — I discovered something. Don’t be too sure,
all of you, but if — if ! — we can get out of here, I think
there is a chance of defeating the blighters.”

“How? Tell us! — tell us at once!”

Love in the Night World

iiTT TELL,” said I, “I hadn’t much time and I

%/%/ was a bit flustered, as you can imagine, but
" * I saw enough to realize that the paralysis
ray and ray for dissolving the poison gas are similar
to short-length wireless waves. The apparatus, though
more complicated, is similar in essentials to a wireless
transmitter.”

“You were always keen on that sort of thing, Max,”
remarked Dick. “Did a bit of amateur radio trans-
mitting on your own account, didn’t you ?”

“A lucky thing, too. I carried my experiments pretty
far along certain lines, and I believe I’ve a piece of
mechanism and some drawings at home that would
help us now if I could only get them. In fact I
think — though one can’t be positive — that I was just
on the verge of discovering such rays as these chaps
use. There were some neat little gadgets on that air-
plane, gadgets that seemed to fill an aching void in
the experiments, as I remember my work.”

“You must go and examine the thing again,” said
John Rixon, decisively. “Take pencil and paper and
make as many notes as you can. It looks like a for-
lorn hope, but one never knows. The fate of the world
may depend upon your success.”

“We must ‘pal’ up to our tutor and guide,” said
Rita. “Already he seems a lot more human, now we
can make ourselves understood. I suggest that when-
ever Mr. Harding goes to the Outlet, one of us goes
with him — to help, and, if need be, to distract the atten-
tion of any busybodies.”

“I would be the first to volunteer,” announced Rixon,
“but as President I must stay and look after things
here. Perhaps you will be able to go with our friend,
Martin? Or if Martin is prevented, they would prob-
ably not object to your prowling about, Rita.”

“I'm ready at any moment: we can start tomorrow,”
was her eager reply. So it was arranged that we two

were to try to work back to the Outlet and make
further investigation. Rixon could not keep a hint
of regret out of his voice; nor could our desperate
position or the hazards of our quest damp the warm
glow of my heart.

When Ulf, our teacher, appeared next day, he was
not alone. A Troglodyte woman — squat, coarse-
featured, dressed exactly as he was, but still obviously
a woman — was with him. The grunts and noises of
Ulf’s converse had a tenderer, less brutal sound when
he spoke to her.

In a clumsy fashion, with many sidelong and back-
ward glances of his big eyes, as though he were afraid,
as though he dreaded being spied upon, Ulf introduced
the woman to us, told her our names, and then led
her, with Rita, to the shelter of an empty hut.

They went in together, and in a little while Ulf
and Rita came out. The Troglodyte, with a sort of
hangdog, shamefaced air, immediately left us, shaking
his head vigorously at our symptoms of resuming les-
sons. The small airplane bore him quickly over the
encircling stream, away into the darkness and the dis-
tant faint red glow and hum that came from the poison
works near the great lake. No trip for us that day.

“What does it mean, Rita?” we asked.

“I think it is romance — Romance with a big R. I
think Ulf has run away with Ulla, for that’s her name.
He has shown more feeling, more emotion, than I
thought possible for a Trog. I believe he loves that
creature he has left in my charge. Ugh! And yet
she is an entity, a being, and capable of love, I suppose.
Anyhow, he seems awfully scared — looks fearfully
guilty.”

“Is it a runaway match, an elopement — or can it be
that the monster has run off with somebody’s wife?”
ruminated Martin. “It makes one feel quite brotherly
towards the Trogs if they are capable of anything of
that sort!”

“We must remember,” struck in John Rixon coldly,
“that we know nothing of the sex relationships of
these beings. We don’t know their marriage customs,
if they have any. We don’t know the rights and
wrongs of the matter at all. What we do know is
that we have to keep on good terms with Ulf, since
upon him apparently depends our very slight chances
of escape. You might help us by making friends with
Ulla, Miss Courtney.”

It was clear that for some reason our worthy Presi-
dent was ruffled. It occurred to me that he did not
approve of any irregularity in love affairs, or any
levity in referring to them in Rita’s presence. I did
not like the proprietary way he looked at her just
then, even when he spoke so formally.

This strange affair of Ulf and Ulla threatened to
put a stop to all our plans, for our tutor had no more
time for us. He visited our cave regularly — only to
see Ulla. He had to drag himself away, and grew
more fond, more reluctant, more nervous, every time.
We could do nothing ; could only watch and wait.

And then came swift disaster. One day Ulf did not
appear at his usual time, but two big Troglodytes,

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691

'By the way they kow-tow to the chap, he is the Big Noise down here,*' said Dick, flippantly, “The
King or Great Panjandrum of all the Trogs.”

armed with long metal rods, came in his place. They
dragged Ulla out of her hut, and without taking the
least notice of us, began to beat her mercilessly.

It was a thorough, relentless beating, and her queer
cries and hoarse screams were more than we could
stand. After all, Ulf had left her in our charge.

The three of us interfered. Rixon knocked one
Troglodyte down, while Dick and I wrested his rod
from the other. They were completely surprised, and
did not put up much of a fight. We chased them to the
water, where one, croaking threateningly, swam across.
The other, in a last scrimmage, got such a nasty knock
on the head from the metal bar we had taken from
him, that he sank in the stream like a stone, and never
came up again.

“One brute gone to his account,” said Rixon. “But
we are in for trouble now, I am afraid.”

He had scarcely spoken, when a small air-vessel,
pursued by two larger ones, roared towards us out
of the darkness beyond the water.

Ulf leapt from the foremost before it touched ground,
and ran to where Ulla lay moaning.

The other vessels landed immediately after, dis-
embarking a large party of Troglodytes. Grunting,
growling, their hideous white faces distorted with rage,
they rushed towards us.

The Passing of a Friend

T was a dreadful moment. We knew our impotence
too well to offer resistance.

“We’re in for it now,” said Dick bitterly. “I
always felt as if we were compounding a felony, or
something worse. These chaps are wise to his little
game, whatever it was.”

“And worse still,” Rixon had time to say, “they
have got hold of the chap who swam across. Must
have picked him up with a trailing rope as they came
along. Ah !”

The infuriated Troglodytes had now reached Ulf
and Ulla. Our tutor sprang to his feet, gave a hoarse
cry, and signalled to us for help.

With a violent swing of his metal rod, he smashed
in the skull of his nearest assailant. Then he drew
something out of a fold in his coarse robe — a small,
white, shining object.

A jet of flame, fierce, lurid, noiseless, jerked from
its muzzle. The glare of it lit the vast cave with the
sudden radiance of a lightning flash. Every object
stood out in pitiless relief, crystal clear — the huts, the
scared faces of our people, the foremost Troglodytes.

Rita covered her face with her hands, giving a sob*
bing cry of horror. Tough as I boasted myself to

692

AMAZING STORIES

be, I involuntarily turned my eyes from the sight.

The silent flame had destroyed the two nearest Tro-
glodytes as a blast of furnace heat would have eaten
away lumps of warm butter. Most of their bodies
disappeared. They simply vanished. The light went
out and the phosphorescent semi-gloom enwrapped us
once more.

Ulf threw away the shining little gun as if it were
useless now, as if he had exhausted its one devastating
charge, and faced his foes desperately. I rushed up
to him, Dick with me ; but Rixon stood fast, apd, with
a grip of iron, held Rita back.

“Look!” he said. “It’s no use. Even Ulf knows
that he is beaten.”

The angry Troglodytes had now surrounded us. Ulf
and Ulla were each in the grip of strong captors. We
were hustled, none too gently, back to the grounded
air-vessels, our fellow prisoners driven away out of
speaking distance.

Then from one vessel descended the tallest and finest-
looking (or at any rate, the least brutal-looking) of
all the underworld folk we had yet seen. He had a
bigger forehead than the others, a really dignified bear-
ing, and evidently expected the reverence which he
received.

“By the way they kow-tow to the chap, he is the
Big Noise down here,” said Dick, flippantly. “The
King or Great Panjandrum of all the Trogs. Is he
going to hold a Court levee?”

“We are on trial for our lives, if that’s what you
mean,” John Rixon spoke cuttingly. “And we can say
nothing — do nothing.”

It certainly was an impromptu trial. We could see
that, even with our limited knowledge of the Tro-
glodytes and the ways of the underworld.

There was much pointing, grunting, gesticulation
and angry questioning of our tutor and the woman for
whom he had evidently risked so much. With every
sense alert, we gathered from the excited talk that Ulla
was the chosen of the tall one, and that Ulf had broken
the sternest laws of this shadowland.

They had committed a monstrous crime, those two.
The outcome of the trial was a foregone conclusion.
There was no hope for them.

Yet Ulf and Ulla now stood up boldly defiant. They
sought each other’s eyes, and love transfigured them.
Squat, coarse, ugly, brutal as they seemed, the light
that leaped from each to the other was the light of a
love that would conquer death.

The sentence, put as near as possible into our words,
was something like this:

“For you, Ulla, there can be no mercy. You have
sinned against the world and against me. You die
by the Flame. For you, Ulf, for whom she sinned,
there is mercy. Mercy, even though you have openly
rebelled against My Law. Your life is spared. You
shall be sent to work in the lower mines.”

That, at any rate, was the gist of it. And then the
tall one gave a grunt that meant:

“Carry out the verdict.”

A Troglodyte advanced towards Ulla, a shining little

gun in his hand. He would kill her with the destroying
flash of flame.

A glance passed between the victims, a glance whose
poignant pathos will haunt me to my dying day. Then
Ulf broke away from those who held him and, crying
something which we could not translate, flung himself
between Ulla and the shining gun.

The tall one groaned, stretched out a warning hand,
but too late.

The flame leapt from the gun, lighting up the cave
with its garish radiance, and the bodies of Ulf and
Ulla, clasped together, vanished. Together they had
passed on. For where love is, there can surely be
no death.

For the moment we forgot our own position, our
own peril, and the menace that hung over the upper
world of sky and sun — that world already seeming so
remote.

Then our captors closed round us, and the tall one
assumed his grotesquely pontifical air.

“There are the slaves who have learned to speak with
our tongue, who have aided Ulf in his crime,” said a
Trog, grovelling before the tall one. “What shall be
done with them?”

“They are only slaves; I will judge them quickly,”
was the substance of the Chief’s reply.

“It’s the finish, old scout,” said Dick. “We can only
die game. Good-bye all.”

Caught in the Act

W E were utterly unprepared for what followed.
The strangeness of our surroundings, the
bizarre ugliness of the Troglodytes, the hos-
tility we felt towards them had warped our judgment.
They were better than we would admit.

“The slaves shall go free,” was the purport of the
tall chief’s verdict. “They can know nothing of my
laws. I will send them another teacher, for they have
greatly helped in keeping their fellow-slaves quiet and
orderly. These four must not be sent to the mines.”

The tall one was grim, cold, pitiless, but he had good
sense, and he certainly spoke with authority. We
bowed to him gratefully, but he at once turned his
back on us, grunted to his guard, and climbed back
into his air-vessel.

We were only slaves, useful slaves, after all. It
was justice, impersonal, common-sense justice, we had
received, not mercy.

“But it is something to have found these two things
in this nightmare world,” said Rita: “Love and Jus-
tice. Where these can exist, there must be hope of
progress, of betterment!”

Then followed days of waiting, of weary learning,
of hard work at our several duties in the Slave Repub-
lic, of daily heartbreak as friends and acquaintances
were taken from us to the death-in-life of the mines.

Perhaps I have dwelt too much upon our own feel-
ings and doings, and not sufficiently on the troubles of
our fellow-prisoners and the news that filtered down
to us with every fresh batch of victims from the day-
light world.

After all, one’s own affairs interest one most !

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693

The work of keeping some semblance of order and
sanity in the Slave Republic, amongst these fated people
of mixed races and nations, was no light task.

We had to be severe at times, to check panic and
hysterical outbursts; we had to be careful how we
divulged the true perils of our position to the new-
comers.

But for John Rixon, the work would have been
impossible. The man was a marvel. He had risen
to the occasion nobly; he was tireless, dominant, re-
sourceful, tactful, respected, admired, loved, hated.
Loved by the best of us ; hated by the small-natured and
ill-balanced.

It was no wonder that he and Rita seemed to draw
nearer to each other every day. They had so much
in common; their tastes, courage and physical charm
were so much alike. And they had been brought up as
playmates together for several years, Rita told me one
day. They had always been John and Rita to each
other.

Of course I had no right to resent their friendship.
Surely there could not be a better couple mated than
these two, if— as seemed only too probable — it came
to that.

As Chief of the Information Bureau, where we kept
what meagre records we could on the scraps of paper
available, I was busy. It was hard and tiring, that
and the training I got from the Troglodyte tutor, but
John Rixon was firm in holding every one of us down
to the grindstone of duty. He tired our bodies, but
kept our souls alive.

Up to the time I again found an opportunity to in-
vestigate a Troglodyte air-vessel and its wonderful
weapons, we had gathered the following outline of the
state of affairs in the world above. Every new prisoner
brought in, I should state here, was thoroughly ques-
tioned and cross-questioned, and all statements made
were checked and cross-checked as far as possible.

Panic had begun to shake the civilized world. The
Troglodyte air-vessels, capable of enormously long
journeys at high speed, had trailed death and destruction
over three continents.

No effective method of fighting them, of combat-
ing the poison gas, had been found. No attack made
on any of the enemy camps had been successful.

Buenos Aires, Montevideo, and Lima had been blot-
ted out as Rio had been. Captives had been taken
up from hundreds of places in South America, Aus-
tralia and New Zealand.

Many ships had been sunk at sea, apparently in a
spirit of wanton mischief. North, east, west, the raid-
ing destroyers were traveling, spreading ruin, dislocat-
ing transport, isolating communities, imperilling civili-
zation.

“But we know enough of the Trogs by now,” said
Rita one day, as we sat dismayed by the ever dismal
news, “to know that they don’t do anything just for
mischief. They are a very cold, precise, intelligent
sort of animal. They are annoyed at the resistance they
have met in our world, and they are deliberately trying
to spread fear and panic, so that they can collect slaves
as and when they want, without having to fight all

the time. They have no more regard for us and our
achievements than we have for an ant hill when we
want the eggs to feed pheasants !”

“I’m afraid you haven’t much time to spare, Hard-
ing,” Rixon remarked, “if you wish to get away with
your information. If you don’t go soon, the outer
world will simply become a breeding-ground for slaves.
We must get busy at once.”

That very day a chance offered itself to us. Our
tutor intimated that the Chief wished to question us
about our own world, and we four were taken to the
great opening at the bottom of the Outlet. There we
had to wait until summoned to the presence.

Within an hour after reaching the Outlet, I had
found an airplane unguarded, and with Dick aboard,
used my eyes for all they were worth.

My previous ideas were confirmed. The radio waves
that created nerve paralysis and also those that dis-
sipated the poison gas were short-length waves, such
as I had almost discovered in my home experiments.

I made hasty notes, a few rough sketches of the
all-important transmitters, and was just going to try
the effect of snapping a switch on the radium engine,
when Dick, glancing up, gave a low whistle.

“Drop it Max, and look as innocent as you can.
Here comes His Nibs, with our tutor and about a
score of the ugly brutes. They’ve seen us; there’s
no getting away from it.”

The Heavy Hand of Despair

L ONG before the Troglodytes reached us we knew
that we were not going to be treated lightly this
t time. Their faces were eloquent of anger, and
the face of the tall one was the blackest of all.

We were unceremoniously pulled out of the vessel
and hustled before the Chief. We could not say any-
thing in our defense ; we could only stand and wait.

From the excited gruntings and arguments, we could
make out that there were two parties amongst the
crowd of sycophants. One lot urged the Chief to have
us killed by the Flame at once; the others pleaded for
delay on the ground of our usefulness. We could be
killed or sent to the mines as soon as more slaves had
been trained to our intermediary work.

“This is my judgment,” said the Chief at last. “Let
these two be imprisoned. As for the other two, I will
speak with them.”

We hoped to see John and Rita and let them know
of our plight, but it was not to be. A couple of the
animated pasty-faced gargoyles laid rough, strong hands
upon us and dragged us to a small cave in the rock.
It was a small space, almost as small as a kitchen in
a working-class house, and secured with a stone door.

“No way out,” said Dick, as the slab banged dully
into its groove.

“No light, except this ghostly underground glow
through a few holes up there. I hope they won’t keep
us here very long.”

“That’s troubling me,” said I. “That’s one thing
we haven’t found out — how long these Trogs live —
what is their average ‘expectation of life.’ They may
live to be well over a hundred, and in that case they

694

AMAZING STORIES

may keep us here for a few weeks and think they are
treating us well. And here am I, with what I know!”

“John Rixon's our only hope, Max. He’s sure to
get to know, and he won't let us down if its humanly
possible to save us. He’s a great man. He and Miss
Courtney are about the finest couple I’ve met. Of
course, I oughtn’t to say it, but one can’t help seeing
things — it was rather a bad day for you when these
two met.”

“Dick,” said I, “cut it out. I'm not acknowledging
anything of the sort, and in any case, such ideas are
no good down here, are they?”

“Not much, but we may get back above some day.
I wonder if we shall ? Doesn’t look promising.”

It didn’t. Except for being fed very sparingly, we
were left in that dark, stifling hole for what seemed
an eternity.

I have not previously mentioned a method of com-
munication largely used in the underworld. Nearly
every moment since we had come down, we had heard
continual but erratic tappings and knockings against
the rocky walls. It was a regular system of sending
messages, developed to a high pitch of perfection.

This rock-tapping was almost the only sound that
penetrated our prison walls. It was all around us,
tap, tap, tap; and at times it rose to a maddening
crescendo of jarring noise.

And the longer we were immured in the vile little
cave, the more insistent and maddening became that
tap, tap, tapping. We felt that if it went on much
longer we should become nervous wrecks. At last,
when we had given up hope of relief, in the midst of
an increasing outburst of noises, the door was opened
to admit Rixon.

“I’ve come as soon as I could,” he said. “I’ve got
in the good graces of the Chief, and he has allowed
me to see you ; but I can’t stop many minutes. Here’s
a hand-torch, Trog manufacture, to lighten your dark-
ness now and then. Now listen carefully.

“You will have to put up with this hole for some
time longer, but, when your sentence has expired, you
will be freed and set to work again. There has been
an enormous influx of fresh prisoners, and Rita and
I have been busy, both here and way back in the pris-
oners’ camp, keeping things ship-shape. If we are
here when they let you out, Rita has a little surprise
to spring upon you. Don’t ask me now what it is.

“It seems the Trogs have met with resistance every-
where above ground, and it is making them angry.
They have formed several big camps in Africa and
South America, and are continually sending out raid-
ing parties to terrorize us into submission. As slaves,
we are dying off terribly fast in the mines, and the
supply has to be kept up. The Trogs are trying all
sorts of races and nationalities with a view to finding
and selecting the sort of human that will make the
best and longest-lived slave. It’s simply horrible, and
the panic and disorganization in the upper world are
getting worse every day.

“There’s only one gleam of light, excepting your own
discoveries, which at present are useless, Harding. And
that is that the atmosphere of the upper world does

not suit the Troglodytes. All those who go out come
back with some sort of catarrh, and many of them
with worse diseases. Our upper-world germs are get-
ting busy. Of course, lots of them recover when they
get down here again ; but not all. I’ve had to doctor a
few. I’ve pulled the Chief himself out of a fever he
caught on his last voyage — that is why he allowed me
to come here now. I never knew before, that I had
the makings of a medico in me !

“There’s some gratification in that knowledge, but
it may be that civilization — as we know and value it —
will be extinct before disease calls a halt down here.

“I’ve learned enough since you were put away to
feel sure that in mechanical skill, inventive cunning,
and sheer selfishness, the Trogs are our superiors.

“Well now, buck up; set your teeth hard and last
out the rest of your sentence. You won’t be kept a
moment longer than the time given. I’ll try to send
you in a bit more varied fodder. I can do no more.
So long.”

With a hearty hand-grip, he left us.

Dick was much cheered at first, but as the weary
hours and days dragged on, he relapsed quickly into
the old apathy. The cave was, by this time, a veritable
torture-chamber.

For myself, Rixon’s visit had only served to lay
heavier upon me the already heavy hand of despair.
To be imprisoned here when I ought to be up and
doing — to have lived through so many dangers — to
have discovered what I had, only to wait helplessly in
this hole was intolerable.

And to add to my despair, there were Rixon’s omi-
nous words;

“Rita has a surprise for you. Don’t ask me now
what it is.”

What could this surprise be ; something I feared and
yet expected. Something that would rob success — if
by some miracle I achieved success — of all joy?

What could he mean, if it was not that Rita and he
had come to an understanding ?

The dim twilight of the prison cave was as sunshine
compared with the blackness that enwrapped my spirit.

John Rixon’s Choice

I T was some considerable time after John Rixon’s
visit when, flashing the electric torch idly about
the floor for want of a better occupation, I found
a diary. It was a small book, pocket type, with three
days to a page.

“Umph. Rixon must have dropped it,” said Dick,
and straightway lost all interest.

As I have said before, our clothes were now getting
pretty ragged. I put the little book in my pocket, and
soon after, heard it fall out on the floor.

Under normal conditions I should never have done
that of which I was then guilty.

The diary fell with its leaves apart, and the circle
of light from my lamp revealed several words in John
Rixon’s bold, angular writing. I saw my own name
written there.

I glanced at Dick, he was crouched in a corner of

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695

the cave, staring fixedly, with unseeing eyes, at the
damp wall.

I picked up the little book, and these are some of
the extracts I read:

“Wonderful to have met Rita here. . . . Should
have been better pleased” (pleased, down here, ye
gods!) “if Harding had not been with her. Harding’s
a decent sort of chap, I think ... a bit conceited per-
haps. Not much to be feared from Martin, but Harding
is clearly involved. . . . There were some blank pages
and then one or two recent entries. “Ought to have
a better chance than Harding. Certainly, if he were
out of the running. . . . Going to be a tough job mak-
ing my mind up about this last affair. The old stunt — -
Love versus Duty. Anyhow, all our hopes are on
Harding.”

There was more, but my conscience had begun to
function again. What a cad I was! I switched off
the torch and stowed the diary away in my one secure
pocket. I was too ashamed to tell Dick what I had done.

The cryptic references to a conflict between love
and duty baffled my dazed, numbed brain; but I soon
gave up bothering. Nothing really mattered now. I
might be conceited, as Rixon thought, but what chance
had I against him? None — none.

During the remainder of our imprisonment, Dick
and I went down into the very depths of human misery.
I will not dwell upon our hardships ; upon our haggard
fears, our uncertainty as to what might happen to
prevent our release ; upon the constant hypnotizing,
maddening tap-tap-tapping of the Troglodyte signals
on the rocks around us.

Somehow we survived until the door opened to
set us free.

“Never thought to call this funny violet glow the
blessed daylight, but it seems almost as good,” said
Dick.

His voice faded away as he tottered forward and
collapsed in my arms. I could scarcely keep up myself.

John and Rita came and took charge of us, and for
several days Dick was out of everything. I must have
been tougher than I thought, for I was quickly active
and about again.

The Trogs kept us busy, making us help them in
sorting out the constant flood of new slaves that the
helicopters brought down the Outlet. It seemed mad-
ness to think of any possibility of escape. Then, one
day, after a particularly long and strenuous spell of
work, when we were all supposed to be resting, the
great chance came.

It was John Rixon that showed us the way. He
roused us all in turn, and we met in the dense shadow
of one of the larger vessels of the twenty or so that
were lying on the open plain under the lower end of
the Great Outlet Shaft.

“I fancy the Trogs hereabouts are as tired as we
are,” he said. “They all seem to be sleeping off their
fatigue, and there isn’t a single sentry on guard. I’ve
gathered enough from scraps of talk I’ve overheard
to feel sure that they trust us now. I am ‘in good’ with
the Chief, since I doctored him as I told you; and

they are convinced that your punishment has cured
you of any further unwholesome curiosity.

“And I have actually learned that this particular
vessel is the very next one to go out, and is bound on
a long voyage of exploration.”

“You want us to seize it and clear out ourselves?”
said Dick. “Don’t forget that we don’t know how
to work the engines. Nasty stuff to experiment with —
radium !”

I was very curious myself. I didn’t see what chance
we had of reaching the top of the Outlet alive, even if
we got going. The Trogs could fetch us down any
moment by a whiff of poison gas.

“We have a better idea than that, Rita and I,” said
John Rixon. ‘‘Why not get aboard and hide ourselves
till we are in the upper world ; in fact, go out as
stowaways? There is plenty of room on a sort of
lower deck, amongst the stores — enough to secrete three
of us at least, with a supply of food and water. Yes,
three of us.”

He stopped, looking keenly into our faces. I knew
now what certain passages in that diary of his meant.
(I had handed it back to him, and he had taken it
without asking any questions.) Three of us were to
go : one must be left behind.

“Yes, John; three of us. What about the fourth?”
Rita’s voice was firm.

“Harding must go — that admits of no doubt. He
has the knowledge that may save the world. He will
go. Then you will go, Rita; for we could not leave
you here when the first chance of escape offers. I
take it that we are all agreed on that ?”

“I see,” Dick groaned. “It’s between you and me,
Rixon. You want me to offer to stand down, of
course. As a person of importance, and for another
very particular reason, you want me to sacrifice myself
and let you go. What if I refuse to be sacrificed?
My life is as valuable to me as yours is to you.”

“I don’t want you to do anything but obey, Martin.
I shall decide who goes, who remains. The others will
accept my decision, I know; so must you. Only give
me a few moments more.”

Almost as well as if I were one with him in soul
and spirit, I knew what was passing in John Rixon’s
inner self. Strong, virile, loving life passionately, lov-
ing Rita Courtney with all his heart, every natural,
selfish human instinct urged him to take the opportunity
of escape. Only his duty to the hapless slaves below
stood in the way. What would he decide?

The Silence of Dick Martin

E VEN as he spoke, I knew what John Rixon’s
choice would be. It was the choice I would have
made in his position — if I had been brave

enough.

His brief Gethsemane over, he turned and faced us
calmly.

“You three will go; I must remain. It is a duty
I owe to the unfortunate slaves ; I should be a cur if
I shirked.”

“I should stay too,” said Rita. “I have work here,
too ; amongst the women slaves.”

696

AMAZING STORIES

“You will go ; I shall not allow you to stay.” Rixon
spoke curtly, savagely. ‘‘We have some very good
women organizers. Now, you two, help me with this
little package aboard. This is the surprise Rita and
I have had in store for you.”

“This” was a thick, short object of twisted cords
and wires, roughly folded together like a skeleton
umbrella — a bulky, "stumpy” umbrella, with a strong
rod and cross handle, but without any covering.

“It’s a parachute — of sort,” explained Rixon. “Taken
us a lot of trouble to make in our odd moments of
spare time. Our idea is that you may need it — you
may not be able to leave the vessel otherwise unob-
served. You may have to jump out during darkness,
if they should do any night traveling. A lot of ‘may’
and ‘if’ and ‘should’ — but we can’t help that.”

So this was the surprise! A weight was lifted from
my mind.

“But where’s the covering material ?” Dick asked.

“That has been our great difficulty,” Rixon an-
swered. “But we have the stuff here, and Rita has
needles and thread. In the space aft, where you three
will hide yourselves amongst the stores and the stacks
of gas bombs, you will have to get the cover sewn on.
We can’t wait now or risk another failure. Take the
goods and get under cover — w e’ve stood here and
talked long enough.”

It was wisdom to hustle us aboard, but there was
more than that in John Rixon’s dictatorial command.
The man was suffering a terrific mental strain. I felt
that he could not keep up his cool, stern demeanor
very much longer.

We clambered into the airplane and found our quar-
ters. They would be cramped, but when we had
stowed away the parachute and its cover, and our own
food, we felt reasonably safe from discovery. There
was a big heap of miscellaneous stores, and we were
ensconced behind this in the darkness of a low recess
under the top deck.

Rixon wrung each of our hands in turn as we stepped
out of sight, and I fancied he clung to Rita’s before
he let her go. We said “Good-bye”; he said “Good
luck”; we could find no other words.

We heard him walk across the deck, climb down;
heard his receding footsteps fade away.

It was a weary, anxious time, waiting there in the
semi-darkness. Tired though we were, sleep was not
to be won, and we had no chance of working on the
parachute till the machine reached the upper world of
light.

Presently the great dim dome under the Outlet grew
noisy with life and movement as the Trogs got to work
after their rest.

We heard the faint crescendo and diminuendo of
signal tappings on the distant rock walls ; the confused
murmur of grunting conversation ; the' drone of air-
planes going to and fro in the great cave-ways. Some
’planes with the subdued groan of vertical propellers,
came down the Outlet ; others, roaring and grinding,
ascended.

Then the crew of our vessel came aboard and began
their duties. The radium engines (throbbing dully in
their lead-sheathed covers) were started, and the smell
of lubricating oil filled the air about us.

At any moment we might be off. I felt my heart
almost cease to beat when a couple of Trogs, already
goggled and heavily clothed, came down the short steps
from the upper deck and began to search for something
amongst the stores. With grunts of satisfaction they
found the package they wanted and stooped to pick it up.

At that very moment Dick made his fatal blunder.
I saw what he was doing, but dared not make a sound.
The roll of material for covering the parachute had
shifted with a lurch of the vessel, and Dick was afraid
it might be seen, as, indeed, it might.

He stretched out a hand from between two tiers of
gas bombs, and began pulling the roll slowly and quietly
under cover.

The movement, the hand, caught the eye of one
of the Trogs. With hoarse cries, the two waddled for-
ward. One seized the roll of stuff; the other fellow’s
talon-like fingers closed round Dick’s wrist. With a
fierce jerk, he pulled our companion out of his hiding-
place.

Rita’s hand sought mine, and we waited, silently,
tremblingly, for discovery. If those two demons, who
had got Dick, came to look for us, then indeed, all
was lost. If even Dick, in his surprise and chagrin,
called to us, or cast a backward glance, our fate would
be sealed.

Peering through the spaces between the stacks of
bombs, we saw the Trogs hustle Dick towards the
ladder leading the upper deck. There, a Trog in
authority — the skipper, no doubt — began roaring angry
questions, gesticulating, pointing, threatening.

We caught enough to gather that he was asking our
unfortunate friend why he had hidden on the vessel,
what the roll of stuff was for, whether other prisoners
knew of his action.

Not a word from Dick Martin, not a single back-
ward look.

Not even when a Trog pointed a flame pistol directly
at his heart, did our comrade flinch. He knew that the
least hesitation or confusion, the cleverest explanation,
would only arouse keener suspicion.

“Tell us slave, why you are here? Tell us who are
those other slaves who must know of your doings?”
grunted the Troglodyte captain. “Tell us, and you
shall be set free unhurt. Tell us — or I send you back
to the prison where already you have been, where you
will be left to die.”

That, at least, was the purport of it.

“Back to prison where you will be left to die!”

It was a terrible choice, an awful alternative.

We crouched there in the darkness, silent and help-
less, only restrained from rushing out to try to rescue
our comrade or to share his fate by the knowledge that
the welfare of the world forbade us — by the knowledge
that he, facing a terrible death, would wish us to
be still.

THE WORLD AT BAY

697

“O Sky, O Sun!”

I THOUGHT it was not in Dick’s nature to go
down without fighting, so I was not surprised to
hear the sound of blows, of a scrimmage.

When they came to hustle him overboard, to hand
him over to the crowd of Trogs now gathered round
the airship, he struck out manfully. Judging by their
cries, we guessed he had got a few blows home, before
they turned the paralysis ray upon him and carried
him off to his fate.

Rita’s hands clasped mine with such nervous force
that her little nails dug into my palms. A cold moisture
stood out on my forehead. Yet, as Dick kept silence,
so did we.

Then the engines began to work more fiercely, the
side planes fluttered, the vertical lifting propellers
whirred and roared as the airplane rose from the
ground and began the long ascent of the Outlet. From
the cavernous world of phosphorescent light we passed
upwards into a world of darkness.

The engines were evidently working at heavy pres-
sure, as they literally screwed us up and up through
the long shaft. The vessel creaked and groaned ; the
aroma of reeking oil made us sick. What if the engines
failed, or a bearing seized, or a propeller broke? It
would mean a plunge to instant death.

Yet it was not that fear that kept us awake and
alert all the long, long way to the upper air. It was
the danger of discovery by the Trogs. I cannot under-
stand, even now, why they did not investigate further,
why they did not make a thorough examination of the
storage hold after finding Dick. One is loath to talk
of Providence these days; let us say it was just our
wonderful good fortune.

As the weary time of this upward journey passed,
we must have dozed, both of us.

I was aroused by Rita shaking me gently ; one hand,
cool and soft, laid across my mouth.

“We are neai-ly there,” she whispered. “I have been
asleep too. As soon as the light comes, you must help
me with the parachute.”

“You forget,” I whispered back. “They took the
cover stuff away when they caught Martin. There
will be no parachute now.”

This time I had to hold her in a fierce grasp to
check the sharp cry of vexation that was ready to her
lips.

Already a dim twilight was stealing into the hold,
a delicate, soothing glow of natural radiance from the
top of the shaft.

From the opening in the upper deck this radiance
came, broadening and brightening moment by moment
as the vessel neared the upper air. Objects grew from
ghostly shadows to real outlines, and out of the defeated
darkness came Rita Courtney’s face, close to mine —
worn, strained, but lovely and lovable beyond compare.

Presently the light grew stronger, and the sound of
the machinery changed. The vessel had leapt from the
Outlet, was moving horizontally in the clear air of

a golden day. A shaft of sunlight pierced the hold,
falling full on Rita’s head, and through the deck-opening
we caught a glimpse of silver-tipped clouds floating
in the blue.

“To be up here again,” she whispered. “Oh, it is
too good, too sweet ! O sky, O sun ! I never thought
to see you again !”

Till that moment of realization I had not known how
dear the sight of sun and sky and earth could be ; had
never known how utterly, in the world below, I had
lost hope.

Our spirits sang with joy, what time our poor, tired
bodies, made tender by our sojourn in the ever warm
atmosphere of the depths, shrank and trembled in
the chilly upper air.

“And what shall we do now?” I whispered, trying
to still my chattering teeth.

“At present, nothing, except to eat and keep quiet,
waiting our chance,” she replied. “I have an idea,
which I will tell you later on.”

So we had our first meal, on the unsavory chemical
food we had brought with us, made ourselves as com-
fortable as we could in the confined space, and waited.

The air-vessel throbbed steadily on over miles of
steaming forest, coming to rest at last in the camp from
which we had been taken to the Outlet weeks — was it
weeks, or months, or years? — ago.

No chance of escape there. The camp was full of
watchful enemies; the surrounding jungle, trackless,
danger-infested, malarial, hopeless. We hid in our
cubby-hole for a day, sweltering, tormented by flies and
mosquitoes, and not once molested by the crew.

Then the vessel rose again, apparently freshly pro-
visioned, and set out in a westerly direction. At a
great elevation we crossed the Andes, swept over the
narrow Chilean coast, and stood out into the Pacific.

In our strange and embarrassing companionship, we
had now taken it in turns to sleep and keep watch —
turn and turn about. It was in the early morning when
Rita woke me hastily.

“Listen,” she said, as soon as I was roused enough
to understand. (We had now found it possible, owing
to the noise of the machinery, to talk quite safely in
low tones. ) “I have gathered enough of the conversa-
tion going on above deck to find out where we are
bound. They speak of passing over a great land sur-
round by bitter water — salt, they mean — and then going
further north on a voyage of exploration and terroriz-
ing. That land must be Australia. We should be pass-
ing over it to-night, if my estimate of our speed is
anywhere near the truth. Then will be our chance—
probably our only chance.”

“But if they don’t land anywhere?”

“Then we must use the parachute.”

“We’ve no cover; the thing’s useless,” I protested.

Was it possible that Rita Courtney was losing her
memory ?

“We must make a cover, Mr. Harding. We must
get to work at once. I will show you how I think it
can be done. It’s a dreadful risk, but we must take it.”

698

AMAZING STORIES

A Leap Into Nothing

S HE produced needles and thread from a little
hold-all she had managed to keep through every
vicissitude.

“No scissors ! Have you a pen-knife Mr. Harding?”
Wondering, I handed over my one and only.

She looked at me quizzically, with an expression I
could not read. There was resolution in it, confidence,
even mischief — and yet I couldn’t make head or tail
of it, nor of her slightly heightened color.

“We are in a terrible pinch, you and I, Mr. Harding.
These Trogs wili never let us escape alive — we have
learned too much. Yet we must escape, not so much
for our own sakes as for the sake of humanity. We
have simply got to cover this clumsy parachute, how-
ever badly, and make the attempt to land, no matter
how dangerous.”

“Cover it — yes. With what?” I asked, though I be-
gan to see light.

“With as much of my dress as I can spare! This
is no time to study conventionality or false modesty.
There isn’t so much of the dress as I could wish, but I
must sacrifice everything if need be. And there’s your
coat — even your shirt, Mr. Harding ! Let us forget
everything except that we are two human beings whose
existence is essential to the world.”

“You are wonderful, Rita,” I said, using her name
for the first time.

Her eyes dropped and she began unfastening her
dress. I felt that I had betrayed the sudden feeling
that overwhelmed me — that she had not responded, and
yet that she was not displeased. But this was no time
for sentiment!

We worked hard on that wretchedly amateurish para-
chute. Before we had finished it, had clumsily sewn
on to its skeleton Rita’s dress, every scrap of material
she could spare, together with my coat, waistcoat, shirt
and undervest, our fingers were stiffened, our hands
numbed, and our teeth chattering with the icy cold of
the upper air through which the vessel was rushing.

But, such as it was, it was finished at last, and not
a moment too soon. The semi-tropic daylight faded out
as we gave the finishing touches. We could only wait
for complete darkness now, and some signs of land ;
then we could make our attempt. There was a chink
in the metal wall of the deck through which we could
get occasional glimpses of the sea below.

“It is a poor sort of conveyance,” said Rita, as we
sat back to back for warmth. “It seems madness to
jump out and trust our lives to it. If there were any
other way — but there isn’t.”

It was soon night, black as pitch, and from the peep-
hole, we could not tell what lay below us. The air-
vessel rushed on at terrific speed, and a confused mur-
mur of excited grunting went on above deck.

Just as we were deciding to try to make the deck
at all risks, and I had found a charged paralysis gun
in the hold, together with a couple of metal rods that
might be useful in the struggle, the noise above burst
into an angry roar of rage, a storm of panic. With a
rending crash something heavy fell to the deck, and

one of the engines raced, screamed harshly, and stopped.

“What is it?” whispered Rita, as we clung together.

“Machinery broken down,” said I. “I have heard
main driving shafts snap before. But just listen ! We
haven’t made that umbrella too soon. They can’t de-
scend; they daren't stop!”

We summoned all our laboriously acquired knowl-
edge of the Troglodyte speech to try to understand the
meaning of the panicky uproar, and my first impres-
sions were soon verified.

The main gear shaft of the lifting propellers had
gone, and the Trogs were unable either to rise or fall.
The aerial voyages were always begun and finished
with a vertical rise or fall — they had never learned the
art of gliding to rest, or rising from a run on the level.
The cave world was not suitable for such tactics, and
the tremendous power of the radium engines had made
the helicopter method practicable.

But now that the lifting vanes were out of action,
our vessel could only rush on horizontally at its pres-
ent elevation.

“And when they stop the engines, or the power gives
out, we shall drop like a stone,” I said. “It’s now or
never for us, Rita; we must be nearing land. Are
you ready?”

“Ready, aye, ready !” she said.

A Trog came into the hold as we stepped from our
hiding place. He flashed a torchlight on us and gave
a warning cry. I let him have the metal rod mercilessly,
and we stepped over his dead body.

At the top of the steps leading to the upper deck,
we met more of the Trogs. Giving Rita the paralysis
gun to threaten them with, I smashed at the foremost
with savage energy. The action warmed my chilled
blood, and in a sort of Berserk fury, I drove them
before me.

Panic-stricken at their plight, anyhow, our sudden
appearance startled them out of their senses. Before
they knew what was happening, I had cleared a way
to the vessel" s side and we had dragged the parachute up.

Dazed, uncomprehending, totally unprepared for
what we were about to do, the Trogs stood in a cluster
watching us as we got the clumsy affair upright and
partly open.

No doubt the sight of the paralysis tube kept them
off for a time, though they might have used their flame
pistols if they had not been taken by surprise ; but they
hesitated uncertainly, and, while they hesitated, we acted
and their chance was gone.

Poor devils ! Whatever our fate, they were going
to a fearful end.

I peered over the side and shuddered at the prospect.
Yet there, to westward, through a break in the rolling
cloud masses below, a few glittering points of light
shone out — shone and vanished — and shone again.

Land ! Lights ! The homes of men !

“Get ready,” I said. “Are you fast ? Pull this a bit
tighter. Take hold ! Shut your eyes, and when I say
the word, jump!”

We had now tied ourselves to the main shaft and
cross-bar of our parachute, for we were too cold to
be sure of holding on for long, and had clambered on

THE WORLD AT BAY

699

the low bulwark, slowly and with ever fearful care.

We poised the great umbrella above us, nerved our-
selves for the shock, and, as a hoarse cry burst from
the Troglodytes, sprang together into the deep and
empty gulf of night !

The City of Anarchy

T HE horror, fear, and nausea that gripped me
as we dropped, are beyond the power of words
to tell. But for the sight of the air-vessel seem-
ingly leaping up and way from us, the upward rush
of air, and our dreadful internal feelings, we should
not have known we were falling. But those three items
were quite enough.

The air sang and roared in our ears as we hurtled
downwards with frightful velocity, the home-made para-
chute refusing to open fully for a long time.

Would it ever open? I have never asked Rita what
her thoughts were, but I know I pictured, all too vividly,
the probable end of our journey. Desperately as we
clung to the pole of the scarecrow contraption we had
made, it was well we had tied ourselves on. Already,
as we passed through the chilly dampness of the cloud
layer, I felt my numbed fingers relaxing their hold.

Speech was impossible, with that fierce uprush of
air almost drawing the breath out of our bodies ; we
could only look down at the dark earth, dotted here
and there with the glare of fires, or at each other’*
white faces faintly visible.

Then I heard a dog bark, then a thin wailing cry
that had in it a human note, and the upward gale
changed to a gentle breeze.

Our parachute had opened out at last and had checked
our headlong fall.

“You and I are destined to die peaceful, natural
deaths, Mr. Harding !” panted my brave companion.
“We are experienced aeronauts now, but never again
in this sort of vehicle — never!”

“Never again !” I echoed, with a shudder of relief,
as we sank slowly earthward in more or less graceful
gyrations. “Where are we, I wonder? Over land,
certainly, though there is the glimmer of water yonder.
Looks like a big city, not properly lighted, and on fire
in places. Plenty of queer noises too.”

“One of the Australian capitals,” said Rita. “Maybe
an earthquake, or more probably the Trogs have been
at work here already. But we are going down faster
again — our hand-sewn umbrella is cracking up under
the strain we have put on it. I never imagined it would
last as long as it has.”

Our descent came to an end a few moments later.
The patchwork cover of the ’chute ripped right across,
several stays broke loose and then the main shaft broke
in two. We went down with a sudden drop and with
the lower fragments of the pole still fastened to the
pair of us, landed heavily on the flat roof of a ware-
house-like building.

Down here it was very windy, and the top of the
parachute, a mass of torn rags, was blown away in
the gale.

Except for the fitful red glare of a fire not far away,
in which the roof glistened as with recent rain, it was

terribly dark. Volumes of pungent smoke drifted
across the house-tops, acrid, choking.

With the aid of my old penknife, we freed our-
selves from the last remnant of our old vehicle. We
rubbed our stiff joints and stamped about to revive
the circulation in our cramped and chilled limbs.

We had collected a number of nasty bruises, but
had come down without breaking any bones.

“And now for the lower regions,” said I, “and to
find out exactly where we are and what is happening.
It would be unbearable if we found ourselves stranded
here after all, unable to get away. May have been a
revolution, for all we know.”

“In any event, Mr. Harding, I must get some
clothes,” said my companion decisively. “That is the
very first necessity. I couldn’t go into the streets —
even in the dark — like this. It didn’t seem so bad in
the airship — with you — but down in the streets! Go
down first and get me some clothes. I’ll wait here . . .
Well, I’ll follow you then.”

As we descended the spiral fire staircase that led
from the roof, I remembered Rio de Janeiro, that
other city of disaster I had seen, and nerved myself to
face whatever we might meet.

The building into which we penetrated proved to be
a huge general store, a vast universal emporium, with
many passages, staircases and lifts. The lifts were
out of order, the electric lights would not glow, and we
walked and stumbled through the maze until we reached
the dress and drapery departments.

Here I left Rita for a little time, while I made a
few additions to my own wardrobe in the men’s sec-
tion. There was not much choice, for looters had
evidently been at work, but I felt cleaner and more
respectable in the few new clothes I could find.

Lit by the flickering red glow of some fire that was
raging not far away, a new and altogether wonderful
vision came to meet me. Rita herself says she felt and
looked — a perfect fright.

No doubt the dress and its appurtenances were not
exactly what she would have chosen. She had to have
what the looters had left. No doubt the color scheme
was simply murderous, the coat too long, the sleeves
too short, the hat unspeakable, the fit of every item
execrable — but to me, Rita Courtney looked glowing,
wonderful.

“Did the best I could, Mr. Harding,” she said. “Any-
how, I’m ready for an early breakfast now, if we can
find the cafe and there’s anything left.”

We plunged into the labyrinthine passages of that
derelict hive of business, groping our way towards the
rear. We had not gone far when a fresh outburst of
sound rang through and above the uproar that came
to us from the stricken city. Hand in hand, we stopped,
listening, waiting.

There were cries, shrieks, groans, fierce yells, the
crack of revolvers, and then the rending, smashing
sound of breaking windows, the tinkle of falling frag-
ments of glass.

“More looters breaking in!” said I. “We had bet-
ter get out as quickly as we can.”

700

AMAZING STORIES

Mr. Hopkins Enlightens Us

T HROUGH stacks of rolled linoleum and car-
pets, through avenues of gimcrack furniture and
piles of useless articles of luxury, we came at
last to what was left of a refreshment room. Stopping
only long enough to commandeer a few biscuits and a
drink of soda water, we groped our way out and found
ourselves in the street.

“Been some dreadful work here,” said Rita, clutch-
ing my arm. “That heap of dead — how awful! The
Trogs have done this.”

We hurried past the group of shriveled bodies, know-
ing only too well how they had met their fate. Their
stricken attitudes and shrunken frames spoke only too
eloquently of the dread poison-gas.

To a town-dweller, country roads seem hatefully
dark and desolate on a cloudy winter night. You must
double, quadruple that sense of isolation to get some
idea of what we felt as we picked our way through the
unlit streets of that unknown city.

Every footstep forward was a step into mystery,
and the few snarling dogs we met, the corpses we
stumbled upon, the flickering reflection of fires in the
sky, the clouds of choking smoke, the medley of strange
sounds — all these things added horror to the mystery.

Rounding a corner into a wide, main thoroughfare,
we came in sight of one of the fires, and of what was
left of the human life of the place.

A huge, five-storied shop was blazing, its interior a
mass of flame, its wall silhouetted redly on the glare.
In front of it, some idly, gloatingly watching, some
busily pillaging a grocery establishment by the aid of
the welcome light, was a little crowd of people.

I recognized the type of them at a glance, and when
Rita pointed to a name plate on the corner of the burn-
ing building, we knew where we were. The crowds
of ghouls were typical larrikins, for the most part,
and “George-street” was the name on the wall.

We had landed in Sydney — the beautiful wonder-
city of Australia — and found it a chaos of ruin and
death.

As quietly as we could, we joined the group of
idle spectators and put a few questions to them. We
had to know what had actually happened without draw-
ing too much attention upon ourselves. Our lives were
too valuable now. We could not take any risks at the
hands of a lawless mob.

Fortunately, our grimy faces and my unshaven chin,
oddly matched with the obviously new and ill-fitting
clothes we wore, proved to be in our favor. The
crowd took us for homeless refugees, reckless looters,
like themselves.

We quickly had our worst fears confirmed. After
establishing themselves in a camp in the Blue Moun-
tains, and defeating several attacks upon them, the
Troglodytes had become angry and had decimated the
chief cities of the Commonwealth.

“They put Melbourne under gas a week ago,” said
the most readily spoken and respectable-looking of our
informants. “Where have you two been lyin’ doggo,
that you’re so all-fired ignorant? Wal, they have

smoked out Adelaide, Newcastle, Rockhampton, and a
few more places, and two days ago it was our turn.
We had been warned, and a good many took to the
cellars and home-made gas masks, or it would have
been a complete cemetery at this moment. Gosh! I
wouldn’t like to count the dead as it is ! — and the fires
— and the plunder! The place is Hades — lor’ an’
order gone by the board. Nothing to eat except what
you can collar for yourself. Lord !” He went ram-
bling on, telling us gruesome details of the things he
had seen. He talked so fast, we could scarcely follow
him at times, and in a lot of what he told us, we had
no interest.

At all events, it was clear that the devastation caused
by the Troglodytes had completely paralyzed the life
and transport of the community-far more completely
than any war or industrial stoppage could have done —
and that it was a case of every survivor for himself.

“You kin guess we aren’t standing much on cere-
mony — those of us who have come through alive,” he
said. “If civilization is going to smash all around, we
have still got appetites and muscles left. It’s going to
be the rule of the strong arm over again.

“Look at me. Came from Arkansaw twelve years
back. Forty years old last week. Yesterday or the
day before — or was it a century ago? — a manager in
that blazing pile opposite, with a wife and one kid in
a natty bungalow plumb overlooking the harbor. Cloud
of gas came along, wiped ’em out. I was at work here,
got telephone message, tore my hair out in chunks,
raved. They handed me a mask and rushed me into
the basement along with others, and here I am.

“You see me — just a lone man, with nothing but a
tough constitution, a couple of good arms, and a handy
little gun. Do you think I am likely to starve as long
as there’s any grub to be had Do you think I care
a red cent for anybody or any old law on this earth?
No, sirree! I killed a man only this morning- — I killed
him — me — me — Jonas T. Hopkins, a respectable sub-
urbanite — wiped him out without a tremble, just be-
cause the skunk fancied he had a right to the bakery
he had squatted in. Lord ! It’s the rule of the strong
arm again ; the lonely, desperate man shall be boss of
the earth !”

Looking at him, we could well believe his tale. It
rang true. He was tall and well built, his dust-grimed
clothes had a fashionable cut. A man whom wealth
and luxury had not enervated — a man made desperate
by the loss of everything he loved and prized — a man to
rely upon if one were in a tight place.

“Mr. Hopkins,” I said, taking a sudden resolution,
“come along with us and have a quiet talk. We can
tell you something that will open your eyes, give you
a new interest in life. You are just the man we want.”

My manner impressed him. Staring, he was about
to answer, when Rita gave a sharp cry, and the people
round began to run in panic.

The great outer wall of the burning building opposite,
charred and smoking, was lurching forward to its fall.
As the crowd scattered, it hung, at a dreadful angle,
over the street. It loomed over us, as though over-
shadowing its marked prey.

THE WORLD AT BAY

701

We ran as it fell. It was the fleetness of our limbs
against the terrible quickness of gravity.

I realized, in the lifetime of the fraction of a sec-
ond, that escape was well nigh impossible.

We Enlighten Mr. Hopkins

T HERE was an open stone-arched doorway, and
for this we raced. I reached it first, Rita close
on my heels. Hopkins was third, but as we
jostled together, he pushed us aside roughly and
dashed under cover before us.

It was an example of primal, individual selfishness,
and nearly cost us all our lives. We sprang inside only
just in time — just as that avalanche of bricks and
mortar, and metal and woodwork, fell with a deafen-
ing roar, choking us with its cloud of dust.

The archway, luckily, held under the shock, though
a corner of Rita’s new coat was pinned between the
side of the door and a heavy mass of rubbish, and had
to be cut away.

“I should have been sorry if you two had come to
grief ; I really should,” said Mr. Hopkins, as soon as
he could get his breath. “But I don’t beg any pardons.
It’s every man for himself, and I’m not reckoning to
carry along on Sunday-school lines. Next thing is to
get out of this.”

“It won’t be very easy,” said I, coldly. “This door-
way seems to be walled up on the inside, and the stuff
outside has almost walled us in. We shall have to dig
our way out, and you have got to help.”

“But first, Mr. Hopkins,” said Rita, smiling at the
egoist, “in spite of the unfriendly way you behaved
just now, let me say that I believe you are really a
decent sort of man, and that you are likely to be of
great use to us. We will tell you the details later on
if you agree to help us, but, to shorten a long story,
we have just dropped into Sydney per parachute, having
jumped out of an airplane that brought us from South
America.

“We have been prisoners of the strange beings who
are causing such world- wide havoc. You don’t know
where they come from, but we do. They have come
out of the interior of the earth. We have been down
there, and we have discovered that they want unlimited
supplies of slave labor to work their deadly mines deep
in the globe — mines where the material for the poison
gas is mined, where radium ore is quarried. We have
been down in that underworld, and we have escaped.”

Mr. Hopkins looked at Rita Courtney, and then at
me. He didn’t whistle ; he didn’t smile.

“Say, that’s a tall yarn !” he remarked. “If it’s true,
you’ve got Munchhausen licked to a frazzle. But after
all the things I’ve heard and seen lately, I guess I can
swallow it. Especially if you can trot out any evidence.”

“We can prove it up to the hilt,” I said, and for
the first time since leaving the underworld, I began to
realize the difficulties we might meet in making folks
believe our well-nigh unbelievable story. “Anyhow,
those are the bare facts. We have not been prisoners
for nothing. We have found out quite a lot about
these fiends, who are ravaging and destroying over half
the world, and, most important of all, I think I have

discovered a w>ay to fight them with their own weapons.

I think I have discovered the secret of their method of
dispersing the poison clouds made by their infernal gas
bombs.”

“For God’s sake, don’t go back on that, partner!”
he cried. “Stick to it — prove it! They killed all I
had in the world, and I’d do anything to help you
fight them. Allowing your story is all square, where
do I come in?”

“Here,” said I. “Some apparatus and diagrams that
I need for testing my discovery are locked up in my
rooms in New York, and, if the world is to be saved,
if these invaders are to be fought and defeated, I must
get back home as soon as possible. I am Max Harding,
newspaper man on the Daily Scoop — here’s my card,
rather grimy and dog-eared. This is Miss Courtney,
also a journalist. We were sent out to Brazil at the
outbreak of this business, were captured together, and
have been through a toughish time. We think our-
selves fairly capable, but a little help would be useful
just now. You know Sydney well, and no doubt you
also know your way about Australia. We want to get
a ship of some sort. Money will probably be needed.
Perhaps you can lay your hands on a trifle. Are you
in with us? Don’t hesitate to say no if you doubt our
yarn. We shall have to do our best without you in
that case.”

“Mr. Hopkins, you simply must believe us — we
couldn’t possibly have made up such a story, could we ?
It would be senseless, wouldn’t it?” Thus Rita.

Hopkins stared hard at us for a few moments. I
could see that Rita’s feminine appeal and feminine
logic moved him far more than my own poor efforts. I
could also read in his face the first dim wonderings
about us two, about the relationship in which we stood
to each other. How often, afterwards, as our tale
was told, did I read that dawning curiosity in other
faces !

“Miss Courtney, Mr. Harding, I’m your man!” he
said at last, very solemnly. “It’s up to you to tell me
more, to bring out the proofs as we go along. I can
put you on to the cash easily enough. There’s a nice
little deposit I had already got in view, only it was
food everybody wanted first. Shake! That’s good.
Now for outside.”

We set to work on the fallen rubbish, and at length
made our way out to the debris-littered street. Though
some of the city larrikins had returned to bask in the
heat and light of the dying fire, nobody came to help
us. It seemed that in this city of ruin and anarchy,
men were fast losing their social instincts.

Where the store of money was to which Hopkins
led us, I need not specify, nor at whose gunsmith’s we
armed ourselves, nor at whose food shops we satisfied
the sharp needs of our appetites.

The persons whose property we annexed were all
dead, he assured us, and we did not cross-examine him.
It was good to feel well fed once more, well dressed,
well armed, and with sufficient money to take us across
the world.

I did mention to Hopkins that we ought to try to
get in touch with the Australian Government before

702

AMAZING STORIES

we looked for a ship, but he merely pulled a wry face.

"Your poisoners scared the Government away early,”
said he. "Bomb fell on Parliament House. Last I
heard there was some sort of palaver way up at Graf-
ton. Wires are down, bush swarms with unemployed
and refugees have turned outlaws. No, best look after
ourselves and try to get passage to some place where
things are normal. I found a radio set in working
order yesterday, though the “A” battery was nearly
down and out, and got the fag-end of a message from
New Zealand. Boats are still running from Welling-
ton on several ocean routes. Anyhow, here’s daylight
at last.”

After the dismal night, a glorious day dawned over
the ruined city, and with a fresh sea breeze putting
new life and hope in us, we went down the deserted
streets to the great harbor.

I shall never forget that panorama of land and water,
the most wonderful and beautiful sight, some say, on
all the earth.

And yet, though we saw it, we had just then no
regard for the lovely vision of land-locked sea, sandy
islets and wooded shores, calm and sunlit behind the
sheltering Heads beyond which the restless Pacific
foamed.

We were looking for a ship, and along the whole
quayside there was not one !

No Safety on the Open Sea

«\TOU see,” explained Hopkins, “every critter
Y that could get aboard any sort of craft stam-
peded to the harbor when the Trogs were first
sighted. A man who was in the thick of it and couldn’t
get away, told me a few details.

“It was a raging fight. The mob was as senseless
as a herd of wild bison. Every vessel that could be
got at was packed like a sardine can, and a lot of the
rowboats were swamped and capsized.

“The blamed newspapers had put the fright into folks
for weeks beforehand with their scare headlines. The
man I’m talking about says he went down again after
the poison cloud had passed over — the rain helped to
clear it away — and got into the cable office yonder.
We won’t go in again, thank you. There was only one
chap there — a shriveled mummy, he was, one hand on
his tapping key and the other clutching a piece of note
paper.

“Died at his post. What price the Roman soldier
paid at Pompeii, eh?”

"But there are some ships anchored out in the har-
bor,” said Rita. “We must find some way of getting
to one of them. Don’t waste time talking ; come along.”

Woman, sentimental, yet ever practical!

It was a weary quest, but eventually we discovered
a boat round which were grouped four shrunken
bodies. The gas had overtaken them in the very act
of embarkation. We pushed her out, threw in our
belongings — some tinned foods, a keg of water, a few
extra coats, and the clips of cartridges — and jumped
in ourselves.

The quay appeared deserted, but no sooner were we
in the act of pushing off, than a half-a-dozen wild-eyed

men came out of nowhere, begging to be allowed to go
with us.

“Better have them along,” said Rita. “We shall need
help.”

“Come along then, you huskies!” cried our friend.
“We’ll take you as our crew, only don’t forget that
we are the bosses.”

They accepted the situation eagerly, and helped us to
row our heavily-laden boat out into the harbor. The
first useful craft we boarded was a thousand-ton coast-
er, her bunkers and boilers full, the ashes still grey in
her grates, her dead crew still on deck.

“Guess they thought they were safe out here — and
went on thinking so till it was too late,” observed
Hopkins.

“Well, it’s over the side with them, my huskies; no
time to be squeamish.”

By tacit consent, Mr. Hopkins assumed the role of
captain. Not one of us was a sailor, but we all had
plenty of horse-sense and knew a bit about machinery.
In just over an hour, having stoked up, oiled and started
the engines and got up the anchor, we began to move.

Our idea was to creep down the coast, probably as
far as Melbourne, and if conditions were normal there,
get some sort of official help.

They gave me the wheel, and it was with considerable
pride and considerably more trepidation that I took it
and my courage in both hands and prepared to navi-
gate the Chump down the harbor to the open sea.

Rita, now very suitably attired in engineer’s overalls,
her dainty head piquant under a peaked cap, was at
my side.

“I’m afraid you will be tired of me before this voy-
age is over, Mr. Harding,” she said. “But, you see,
I’m the only woman aboard. I don’t know anything
about the others, but I do know I can trust you.”

“Of course you can.” I kept my eyes grimly on
the narrowing channel of blue water. It was good to
have a valid reason for not looking too long into her
own. “But why so formal, so stilted? Why so much
Mr. Harding ? What’s wrong with my first name ?”

“Nothing— Max. Silly of me to have been so stiff,
but that’s always been rather a failing of mine. Now,
John was always John, ever since I first knew him, and
I expect he will be John to the end of the chapter. Poor
old John! I wonder what he is doing just now? Of
course I know we did right to come, that he did right
to stay behind to carry on his wonderful work down
there in that dreadful cave-world, but it almost seems
as though we had deserted him.”

John, always John !

“What worries me more is the thought of what may
be happening to poor Dick,” I said, still keeping my
gaze fixed on the ship’s course. “We must get home,
we must defeat the Trogs; and I pray we are in time
to save him.”

“And so do I, Max,” Rita seemed somehow softer
voiced, more adorably feminine, now we were at sea.
"Of course, we must think of Dick Martin. I want us
to save all we can. But, you see, I’ve a special corner
in my heart for dear old John.”

Was the jade deliberately harrowing my finer feel-

THE WORLD AT BAY

703

ings, trying to rouse my worst passions? Hang dear
old John!

It was well that I had all my work cut out steering
the Chump between the Heads. It was a good thing
that I was finding all my sea-skill (gained in a couple
of yachting summers) taxed to the uttermost. How I
navigated that harbor and that channel and gained the
open Pacific safely, I don’t know. I never shall know.
I did it — that’s all.

But the doing of it kept me from saying things that
I should have regretted for many a long day after-
wards. So it was a good thing the Chump kept me
occupied in a grim silence till we were clear of immedi-
ate danger.

“Safe out at last,” I said then.

“Look there!” cried Rita, clutching my arm sud-
denly. “Are we never to escape them?”

A couple of airplanes had come in sight overland.
A glance showed us that they were Troglodyte vessels.
One sank towards the smoking city, the other made a
sweeping curve and came out to sea.

“They’ve seen us !” shouted one of our scratch crew.
“We’d be better ashore. Put back. Take us back!”

The Sea Fight

OPKINS, who had been supervising the en-
gines, came up from below.

“Cut out that stuff, son !” he stormed. ‘Tve
a good automatic here, and the first quitter quits —
see? I’m going to let her rip. We are going to race
for it, and if we die, we die in blue water. Keep her
nose southwest, Harding.”

“Mr. Hopkins is right,” said Rita, ostentatiously
fingering her own weapons. “I’m standing by him.
And there’s no certainty that they have seen us.”

Whatever they thought, our crew were cowed into
submission, and the Chump went on. Her engines
worked splendidly, and, under a reek of smoke that
would have done credit — or discredit — to a big liner,
pushed her impudent snub nose through the long Pacific
swell.

Twenty minutes passed in uncertainty, and then our
slight hope vanished. There was no doubt about it.
The Trog vessel, after several wavering meanderings,
settled down in obvious pursuit. Through our glasses
we could see some of the grotesque figures on her
upper deck, pointing and gesticulating towards us.

It was galling, maddening. After all we had suf-
fered, discovered, ventured, accomplished — when our
lives might mean so much to the world — were we to
be poisoned here in the open sea Or, worse, were we
to be made prisoners again and taken back into those
gruesome realms of night deep in the earth?

An hour passed, and, though now it was evident that
the Trogs were actually pursuing, they did not appear
to be gaining upon us at all.

“Can’t reckon it up,” said Hopkins. “From what
I've seen, as well as from what you’ve told me, their
craft could make rings around the Chump. They could
put us under gas even from their present distance.
What’s the idea?”

“I think I can tell you.” Rita spoke with sudden

vexation. “They are just following us to see where
we are going.”

“Don’t see why,” snapped Hopkins, irritable.

“The Trogs are wonderfully clever, especially down
at home in their cave-world,” explained Rita. “But
up here they are somewhat blundering and very ig-
norant. They can’t have much idea of our world —
of its extent, its distribution of land and water. The
immense areas of ocean must astonish them greatly.
Only the speed and staying power of their radium
engines have enabled them to get about the world at
all. They have no maps, they know nothing of the
compass (at least, so I think) ; they just have to feel
their way about in a haphazard fashion. It must have
occurred to these particular Trogs that we, setting
out so determinedly, had some definite destination in
view. They probably think that we shall lead them to
some land as yet unknown to them.

“And that’s precisely what we may do — and, any-
how, whether we go on towards Melbourne or Hobart,
or whether we turn back and try to make New Zealand,
we shall be taking death and destruction along with
us.”

Mr. Hopkins was stumped for a moment.

“Thought I was a cool hand, but you two beat me,”
he went on. “What shall we do now?”

“We shall turn about and head for New Zealand,”
said I. “That is, if the Chump can make it, and our
grub will last out. It’s a longish pull, and they may
tire of trailing after us. We may be too small game
for them to waste gas upon. We may give them the
slip in the night. And New Zealand, according to the
wireless news you heard, is at least ‘carrying on’ yet.
Don’t you agree, Rita?”

“It’s all we can do, Max,” she said, with a shrug of
her shoulders. “We can only go on, and trust to the
God or the Fate that has favored us so much.”

So the Chump held on, pounding away eastward,
the Trog air-vessel following, exactly matching her
speed with ours. When the bowl of the southern night
sparkled with its brilliant galaxy of stars, we ran with-
out lights, with choked fires, hoping against hope to
find our pursuers gone when day came.

“No such luck, no sirree!” growled Hopkins, stand-
ing near me as the sun rose in glorious splendor over
the restless waters. “There they are, just at the same
distance. If only this was a U. S. A. battleship, and
we could put a shell under the blighters ! We can only
go on and twiddle our thumbs at them. This one-eyed
hulk hasn’t even a wireless aboard — we can’t even send
out an S. O. S. !”

“No need, Mr. Flopkins,” came Rita’s clear voice
from forward. “Just look over here. Several ships
over the horizon — one, two, three, four.”

As the flotilla came nearer, we made out that one of
them was undoubtedly a warship, and our spirits rose.
One of our crew found a signaling book, and we lost
no time in getting into communication as soon as we
were near enough. We learned that the warship,
H.M.S. Cruiser Rockhampton, was convoying a mail
steamer and two food ships from Wellington to Syd-
ney, with a view to helping the survivors.

704

AMAZING STORIES

“Better turn back with us!” I shouted, when we
drew alongside the cruiser. “Australia is completely
disorganized and at the mercy of strangers. Your ships
should scatter, instead of crowding together, if you
don’t want this fellow that is following us to wipe you
all out at once. Look out; they mean business!”

I had heard a sharp report, like the crack of a heavy
whip, and knew what that meant only too well.

The Trogs had commenced hostilities.

The bomb struck and burst upon one of the supply
ships. The vessel was quickly enwrapped in the black,
low-hanging cloud. It clung about her, hiding her
from sight. She was suddenly a derelict, a ship of
poisoned dead.

The mail steamer was the next victim, but she had
some little way on her and escaped some of the gas.
We saw a white cloud fighting back the black.

“Sousing it with steam jets 1 Bully!” cried Hopkins.
“Better get our pipes ready!”

Just then came the third report, and the third bomb
found its mark on the cruiser’s quarter.

The Trogs had now come rather low down. They
had not yet fought an ironclad, I expect, and were not
reckoning on H.M.S. Rockhampton.

With full speed on, the cruiser drove clear of the
rolling fog, and next moment came the roar of her
forward barbette. The shell screamed through the air
straight to its mark, smashing one of the Trogs’ side
planes to fragments.

The stricken airplane fired another bomb, and leaped
upwards.

“Too late! Hurrah!” shouted Hopkins, dancing
about in wild glee. “That’s a real tonic! That's the
goods! No more gassing from that little lot!”

H.M.S. Rockhampton had fired every gun she could
bring to bear on her enemy, and in a blaze of rending
destruction, the Trog airplane had vanished. She had
become a rain of fragments, falling into the sea.

A great cheer went up from all hands. From the
cruiser a boat put off towards the Chump.

“Now we are up against one of the stiffest proposi-
tions of all,” said I. “We’ve got to give an account
of ourselves — we’ve got to convince the official mind of
the truth of our story— -and we’ve got to have official
help. It won’t be easy.”

Panic

W ITHIN twenty minutes of the destruction of
the Troglodyte air-vessel, we three were
aboard the Rockhampton, and the convoy was
on its return journey.

We had convinced Commander Jackson that it was
worse than useless to put in at Sydney, and had im-
pressed him very forcibly with the earnestness of our
desire to go back with him; but when it came to the
details of our story — well, we were “up against it.”

Nevertheless, we shook him out of his smiling skep-
ticism at last, and made him realize our sincerity and
good faith.

Rita was our trump card. Hopkins was too head-
strong, too impatient, too full of expletives. For my

part, the tale I had to tell sounded unreal and fantastic
even to myself.

But the Commander was a handsome man, on the
sunny side of 40, a ladies’ man, and Rita’s brilliant
smile, when she settled to work upon him, broke down
his defenses at the first assault.

“I know it’s almost unbelievable, Commander. If
we hadn’t been through it ourselves, it would seem a
fairy story to us. But it’s all true, and you must see
that it fits in with everything you know. You haven’t
even any theory to account for these Troglodytes,
whereas we have penetrated to their place of origin.
And I have brought proofs.”

Hopkins and I craned forward. This was the first
we had heard of any proofs.

From the bead bag which Rita carried, and which she
had somehow managed to retain through all our mis-
adventures, she produced three objects — three small
objects.

She displayed them on the table.

“This is a flame pistol, one of which every Trog
carries for use in the last emergency. Its effect we
have told you. It contains one charge only — a single
release of atomic energy. For heaven’s sake, don’t play
with it ! This is a small poison-gas bomb — -you can
experiment with that when you like. And this” — un-
wrapping a roll of lead and disclosing a dully glowing
knob of curious-looking metal as big as a walnut —
“this is a piece of pure radium from the Troglodyte
mines. We mustn’t handle it, or leave it uncovered
long. There isn’t so much in existence in all our upper
world.”

The Commander looked at these exhibits keenly.
Then he looked into Rita’s eyes. It seemed to me that
it was what he saw there that was really the determin-
ing factor in his conversion.

Then Rita went on to tell of my discoveries, and my
hope of being able to defeat the Trogs eventually. He
wrenched his gaze from her face, turned to me, and
grasped my hand across the table, impulsively.

“If you can do that, Mr. Harding, how I shall envy
you ! You are greatly to be envied as it is ! To be
associated with Miss Courtney as you have been —
what a wonderful privilege !”

I could read his thoughts without any psychic power.
He was wondering, as so many would wonder, how
we stood towards each other, she and I.

“Well,” he went on, “we must get you to America
as soon as possible. You are needed. Just let me tell
you the general situation, as far as I know it at the
present moment, and you will see that you didn’t make
your miraculous escape a moment too soon.

“The menace of the Trogs, as you call them, is the
chief item of interest, and has precedence on all cables
and all radio news. The terrible unexpectedness of
their destructive raids is one of its worst features. No
one, anywhere, feels really safe.

“After devastating much of South America, they
have established camps, or centers, at the Cape, in
Australia, on one or two Pacific Islands, and one large
depot near Panama. Exasperated at the attacks made
upon them, they have paid flying visits to Mexico and

THE WORLD AT BAY

705

the United States. Baltimore and Chicago have been
smothered under poison gas, and many prisoners
scooped up.

“What they took prisoners for, of course, nobody
knows, but these sudden and apparently haphazard
attacks have completely demoralized large sections of
the population. The blacks have almost got out of
hand. They are either running amuck, killing and
burning, or they have ceased to work and give them-
selves up to orgies of religious fanaticism.

“The terror hangs over America like a thundercloud,
trade is paralyzed, credit is falling. Till recently, there
was a frantic emigration to Europe. Everybody feels
insecure, anxious to hide or to run ; nobody trusts the
banks, nobody will speculate. People are privately
hoarding money, valuables and everything useful, pre-
paring for the chaos they expect when the big cities
and Governmental centers are destroyed.

“Of course, all Governments are furiously at work
on speedy aircraft, long-range guns, and so on ; people
are digging gas-proof shelters, and gas-masks are being
manufactured by the million.”

“Not much use against the Troglodyte poison, as
they will find,” said I. “But what about Europe?
Surely that is carrying on normally?

“I was coming to that. Of course the disaster to
America has had unpleasant repercussions in Europe.
What little hope of revival, of improvement, there
seemed left after the Great War and the industrial
troubles, has quite gone. And to put the finishing
touch to the tale of tragedy, the Trogs have crossed
the Equator and entrenched themselves in a big camp
in the Atlas Mountains. They are raiding Morocco
and Algeria, where the panic-stricken Moors, Riffs and
Kabyles are up in arms again, and the last official news
I heard was that Barcelona had been destroyed. Rome,
Paris, London itself, are living in daily dread of the
fate that may fall upon them out of the sky at any
moment.

“Mr. Harding,” he added, “I fervently hope that
your story is true, and that you can do what you say.
God grant that it be so!”

Silence fell upon us. The awful picture of a ter-
rorized world was even worse than we had feared. We
did not think the Trogs so energetic, so daring, so
utterly callous, even after our experiences underground.

“These brutes must be very numerous,” said the
Commander. “Is this nether world you speak of really
very extensive?”

“To the best of my belief, gathered from scraps of
information pieced together,” said Rita, “the cave-
world’s deep passages and openings extend for many
hundreds of miles in all directions from the Outlet.
It is a long journey for one of their small airplanes to
traverse the length of that honeycomb region. Oh, we
must do something quickly, Captain! We must get
home before it is too late!”

“You must 1” said the Commander. “We must wire-
less news of your escape and your project at once. As
soon as we reach Wellington, things should be moving.
You have a tremendous responsibility, but I am back-
ing you for all I am worth. At a time like this I

don’t think any Government — least of all our own —
could afford to neglect any hope, however slight.”

He rang a bell, gave orders for full speed ahead,
dictated messages to all wireless operators, and packed
us off to the cabins at our disposal for rest and change
of clothes.

I remember, as I luxuriated in the long-missed neces-
sity of a hot bath, that I was thinking far too much
of Rita Courtney for my peace of mind, that I was
glad still more strenuous and anxious days were in
store. I even welcomed the heavy rolling and plunging
of the cruiser as we ran into a heavy storm — anything
to keep my attention in the present — anything to divert
it from the empty, lonely future that loomed ahead.

A Rush Across the World

O F the happenings of the next two days, we
have none of us anything except a jumble of
confusing memories. There was so much to
be done, we had to pack such a lot of hard work into
such a short time.

I know we reached Wellington safely, although we
were delayed by the storm; we were met by excited
pressmen and no less excited crowds; we were sum-
moned to a hastily convened meeting of the Cabinet;
and told our strange story over and over again. I
know we were honored and banqueted and interviewed
and believed and ridiculed. I know we made such a
good impression on the people who matter — the people
who can pull the strings — that our speedy transit home
was assured.

But the details ? Don’t expect me to go into details 1
Crowds, meetings, dinners, arguments, speeches to the
microphone, speeches to reporters, headlines in the
papers, sore throats, tired bodies and weary minds,
talks with wireless inventors and experts at all hours
of the night — mix the lot together and take the dose!

Yet, fagged out as we were, our urgency allowed us
no rest. We were too anxious to be on the move, and
our first real spell of idleness and ease came when we
settled in the comfortable cabin of the Australian Air-
ways vessel No. 2, en route for India.

The airplane, one of the finest of the many aerial
vessels now flying on the regular Empire routes, roared
us along at a steady speed of over 100 miles per hour.
Flying high above Australia, we saw little of the
havoc there. We had already seen enough. Without
mishap we reached Bombay on schedule time, and were
handed over to the next pilot, who would land us at
Port Said for the third and last stage of our rush
across the world.

“Aerial travel — if civilization survives this last at-
tack — will alter all one’s ideas of distance,” said Rita.
“Aerial travel, combined with radio news. Here we
are, rushing over land and sea, at about two miles
per minute, getting news as we go along, hearing what
people are doing, what they are saying about us, know-
ing that people everywhere are listening to news of us,
thinking about us, knowing exactly where we are,
waiting, hoping. It is more wonderful than any dream !”

“And when we have defeated the Trogs,” said I,
“and can utilize their radium engines and make our

706

AMAZING STORIES

airplanes into reliable helicopters — we shall leok back
on these days as very slow and old-fashioned.”

“Almost as old-fashioned as a woman journalist
ought to be, but isn’t. Max?”

“I guess the lady got you in the solar plexus that
time, Mr. Harding!” grinned Hopkins, “Wal, this sit-
ting still and watching the earth spin under you is
O.K. for a change, but I gotta hunch that we shan't
see home any too soon. The beggars seem to be get-
ting too busy. Last item sounded nasty. They’ve been
seen over Italy and Egypt. Hope we don’t run into
any of ’em.”

We had made good going up till’ now — had outflown
winds and storms, and suffered no delays from engine
trouble, but the luck Was too good to last. Running
alongside the Suez Canal, flying low over the desert
sand, we noticed a slackening of speed, a change of
note in the roar of the propeller.

Suddenly the engine misfired, the gearing screamed
and groaned, and, with power shut off, we swooped
abruptly to earth. We grounded with a jerk, but with-
out sustaining any other damage than a few severe
bruises.

“Oil case sprung a leak — bearing run dry — propeller
shaft seized — only stopped her in the nick of time —
afraid she’s too sprained to carry on without repair—
can’t send out a call now she isn’t running — don’t know
what you’ll do — have to look for a ship coming through
— Canal over there, not a mile off.”

The chagrined pilot flung these terse remarks at us,
lit a cigarette, and sat down on the sand under the
shadow of one of the wings.

“I’ve got to wait here for the next bus passing.
You’d better be moving, you three.”

“Come along,” cried Rita. “He’s right. We must
get a ship as far as Port Said. Once there we shall be
able to take to the air again — if we are not looked for
earlier. They are sure to send some one to see why
we are behind time, why we don’t speak.”

We tramped across the hot sand towards the distant
line of blue water. The stop was very annoying, but
we were not greatly alarmed. In less than two hours
we were picked up by a big British cargo steamer
going north.

“Funny thing, but our wireless is out of order,” said
the captain, after wonderingly listening to as much of
our story as we thought fit to tell him.

“We shall have to wait till we get to Said — or till
we meet a ship coming down. And that’s funnier still
— we’ve not met one all day! The Canal seems too
quiet. I wonder if there’s been a jam or any accident 1”

We couldn’t tell him anything about that, of course,
but I had a very uncomfortable suspicion of what might
have happened. And it wasn’t long before we knew,
before we realized that our delay had either cost us a
lot of time or saved us from irretrievable disaster.

The Trogs had put a cloud of poison gas over Alex-
andria, Port Said, and the Mediterranean mouth of the
Canal. Two of their queer-looking vessels, rising rap-
idly as they flew, passed over us at a great speed,
swerving south west ward.

Miles away from the usually noisy and busy port,
we saw the black cloud rolling over the level land and
sea, rolling in thick masses that loomed horribly black
under the fierce white sunlight of the day.

The silence was ominous, eerie ; as in the darkness
that once fell upon Egypt, this was a silence that could
be felt.

END OF PART I.

The Menace

By David H. Keller, M.D.

O UR well-known author, who has endeared
himself to the hearts of Amazing Stories
readers, has zvritten a scries of unique stories
for the Quarterly. The four stories may he
read separately, or in a scries. It would be useless
to attempt to reznew them in a preface of this
kind. The only thing zve can say is that these
four stories are chock full of interest, and contain
an excellent amount of science, very cleverly
interwoven.

A great many nezv ideas are brought out in
these four stories. Although all the four stories
are definitely connected, each treats of an entirely
different theme and can stand alone.

While a prominent detective assumes an im-
portant role throughout this scries, they cannot
be called detective stories in the usual sense of
the zvord.

We promise you a lively time zvith these stories.
They will not fail to keep your interest, and yon
will follow the adz'cnturcs of the arch villains
breathlessly until the end.

This story is published in the Summer Edition of
AMAZING STORIES QUARTERLY
now on sale at all newsstands

Out of the Sub-Universe

By R. F. Starzl

VERYTHING in this world is relative, zvith
or zvithout Einstein. Even time is relative.
As Benjamin Franklin pointed out, the
Ephcmerid fly liz'es only tzventy-four hours; yet
leads a normal existence. During those tzventy-
four hours, it lives a full-time life, which, to the
fly is of the same duration as a 60 to 70 year
old life led by the human being. So too, is it zvith
a microbe or microbe organism, which lives only
a few minutes and then dies. These few minutes
constitute a normal 'cycle. It simply lives much
more quickly, although it does not real ice it.

You can conversely imagine a race of human
super-beings on some other planet, which normally
would live perhaps 10,000 years, as computed ac-
cording to our time. To them a fezv years of al-
lotted life would be incomprehensible.

Here is a charming story which contains ex-
cellent science and will teach you a great deal
about the atomic zvorld, if you do not know it al-
ready. Also, it contains that most elusive jewel —
the surprise ending.

This story is published in the Summer Edition of
AMAZING STORIES QUARTERLY
now on sale at all newsstands

-Me ANAN IAS GLAND

By W. Alexander

Author of: “New Stomachs for Old,” and “The Fighting Heart.”

ARTHUR WENTWORTH stretched
is long legs out before the glowing log
re in his library and as he listened to the
eating of the rain on the window, thanked
is lucky star that he had now reached the
place in his profession,
where his medical practice
was confined to his office
and the hospital. Through
the performance of many
unique operations, in which
he frequently transferred
vital organs from one per-
son to another, with good

results, he had gained an international reputation.

He was just becoming absorbed in an article in the
current number of the Medical Journal, when his man
entered with a card.

“I have shown the gentleman into the front room,
sir,” said the servant, “as
I was not sure that you
would care to see him.”

Dr. Wentworth glanced
at the card which read :
“Geo. F. Ballinger, Uni-
versity Club.” Fie remem-
bered the man as a very cas-
ual acquaintance at the club.

rj iHE present story might be termed "An Excursion into
Lighter Psychology It holds up the average human
being in a most surprising light. We do not often stop to
think of all of our actions, good, bad or indifferent, and
even the most honest and fair-minded of us might do well
to read the present story and profit therefrom.

707

708

AMAZING STORIES

“Show him in, Hawkins,” he said, with a sigh of
regret as he replaced the magazine on the stand, "but
unless his visit develops something of unusual interest,
I shall certainly penalize you for allowing him to spoil
my evening. I wonder if that greenback I see pro-
truding from your vest pocket had anything to do with
causing you to break our rule of, ‘No visitors in the
evening without an appointment.’ ”

He smiled to himself as the faithful Hawkins made
hurried exit clutching wildly at the betraying greenback.

In a moment a well groomed man with a fine, intel-
ligent face entered and as he shook hands said :

“I must apologize Doctor, for taking the liberty of
intruding on you at home, but the fact is that I am
not at all sure that I am calling on you in your profes-
sional capacity. I think it must have been your repu-
tation for being a big hearted man with a wise head
and a ready hand for a man in trouble, that induced
me to call.”

“I am afraid you exaggerate my reputation, Mr.
Ballinger,” replied the doctor, very favorably impressed
with his apparent frankness and sincerity. “But be
that as it may, I judge from your remarks that you
find yourself in some kind of trouble. Tell me all
about it; perhaps I can help you.”

“As you may be aware,” Ballinger commenced, “I
have been very successful as a stock-broker. I am
now thirty-five and in the ten years since I left college
and entered business, I have amassed a considerable
fortune. My wife and I have the entree to the best
society in the city ; we are both in good health, and by
all rules we should be extremely happy and no doubt
would be, were it not for the skeleton in the closet.
The nature of this skeleton, I am almost ashamed to
confess to you.

“I am a liar Doctor, an unmitigated, persistent, though
unpremeditated liar. I lie when the truth would serve
my purpose much better. I cannot describe the most
common incident, I cannot answer the simplest ques-
tion, without being overcome with this uncontrollable
impulse to lie. Time after time this failing has caused
my wife great embarrassment, until now she says she
will leave me if I do not stop it. But stop it I can-
not, try as hard as I may. Even as a boy I was inclined
to exaggerate at times, but now it has grown on me
until it has crept into my business dealings, causing me
to lie continually even to my associates. There is no
sense, reason, or method in my lies. Only on rare
occasions has it benefitted me financially; generally it
means a severe financial loss. I have always prided
myself on being absolutely square in business, but in
the past six months these unpremeditated lies have
caused my business associates to look on me with
suspicion and my social acquaintances are now looking
at me askance. Is there anything that you can do for
me Doctor?”

“I will be able to answer that question in just a
minute,” said Dr. Wentworth, stepping to a wall-cabinet
and returning with a small nickel-plated affair, with an
electric-cord attachment, which looked somewhat like
a small flash-light. He attached the cord to a lamp
socket. “This is my pocket X-ray and if you will bend

your head, I will make an examination of a certain
gland located in the back of your head.”

After making a thorough examination, he replaced
the X-ray device in the cabinet and resumed his seat.

“Your condition, Mr. Ballinger, is about as I sus-
pected. Not being a medico, you are probably not
aware of some rather startling discoveries made by
scientists quite recently, which exactly apply to your
case. It has been learned that the closeness with which
a person adheres to truth, depends entirely on the
condition and development of a ductless gland located
just below the medulla oblongata, in the back of the
head. This gland they have quite properly named the
Ananias Gland. My X-ray shows that you have an
abnormal development of this gland, the only remedy
being an operation to reduce it to normal size.”

“Your words are an immense relief to me Doctor,”
said Ballinger with a happy laugh, “for it shows that
I am not really responsible for my lies. I have lately
had the fear that I was really crooked at heart. When
can you perform the operation and for how long will
it confine me?”

“I can arrange to perform the operation tomorrow
and you will be confined to the hospital for not more
than three days, though it might be well for you to
take a rest for two or three weeks afterwards. I should
advise you to let it be known among your acquaintances,
that you are having an operation for the removal of
your tonsils. It will save you embarrassment.”

The operation was performed the next day and that
it was a success was proven two days later when a
friend of Ballinger’s called at the hospital to see how
he was getting along.

“Well old man, did you get rid of the old tonsils?”
he asked.

“No,” Ballinger replied, and was about to explain
that it was a gland that had been operated on, but was
interrupted by Dr. Wentworth, who happened to be
in the room.

“He means that he doesn’t know what we did to
him,” said the doctor with a laugh, “except that he
has a very sore throat. I expect it would be just as
well if he did not try to talk for a few days.”

A FTER being released from the hospital, Ballinger
ran down to Palm Beach and spent two weeks
golfing and swimming, coming back to his office at the
end of that time feeling very fit.

It was not long after his return that he realized that
he had been cured of lying with a capital “C.” Where
formerly his lying had been beyond his control, in the
same measure now was his truthfulness uncontrollable.

One evening he and Mrs. Ballinger were to attend
a dinner-party and when her maid had dolled Mrs.
Ballinger up to the nth degree, she joined him in the
library, feeling quite proud of her appearance.

“How do I look? What do you think of the new
dress?” she asked, pirouetting slowly that he might view
all sides, anxious as are all women, for the male stamp
of approval.

“Well,” he answered, eyeing her critically, “that dress
with those flounces was intended for a slender person ;

THE ANANIAS GLAND

709

you are much too stout to wear that style. There are
slight bags beneath your eyes and in my opinion, you
have too much rouge on your cheeks and lips.”

“Oh, is that so?” said she, hurt and angry. “I expect
you will be ashamed to be seen with me.”

“No, no, Nell darling,” he protested vehemently,
knowing full well that he had made the wrong answer,
but unable to control that impulse to tell the truth.
“You know that I love you just as you are and am
proud to be seen with you.”

It so happened that the guest of honor at the dinner
was a nephew of the hostess, a garrulous chap just
returned from a hunting and exploration trip to Central
Africa. During the course of the dinner he recounted
tale after tale of his adventures and it became painfully
palpable to the listening guests, that he had no mean
opinion of his own ability and exploits.

When the men joined the ladies in the sitting-room
at the conclusion of the dinner, the hostess fluttered
proudly up to a group of men of which Mr. Ballinger
was one, asking :

“And what do you think of my nephew? Isn’t he
the most daring fellow?” The men uttered the usual
banal, conventional phrases, except Ballinger, who, by
a supreme effort, was keeping silent. Noticing his
silence, the lady asked : “Don’t you think he is just too
wonderful, Mr. Ballinger?”

“I think he is a big bag of wind,” he replied, the
pent up words which he had been holding back now
coming out with a rush. “I doubt if he has any part
of the courage he credits to himsel f in his tales. More
than likely he never was more than ten miles inland
from the coast and probably read those stories in some
book of fiction.”

“How insulting !” said the lady, inspecting him
through her lorgnette. “You will please consider
yourself persona non grata in this house in the future.”

As time went on he became more and more of a
social outcast, people fearing his terrible truthfulness.
Conditions at his office were no better and one morning
at a meeting in his office, he lost the friendship of the
remaining three of his associates, because of his uncon-
trollable impulses to tell the exact truth.

The four of them were holding a conference prior
to the expected visit of a capitalist named Andrews,
whom they were anxious to interest in their pool of
a steel stock, in which they were all involved and which
promised to involve them in a heavy loss unless they
could get the help of this man and his money.

“Now men,” said one of them, “when Andrews
comes, it is up to us to sell him the idea of big profits
in this Northway Steel stock pool of ours. If he knew
about them passing this last dividend and how badly
we need him, I doubt if he would come in.”

W HEN Mr. Andrews arrived, they talked very
earnestly to him of the wonderful prospects for
big profits in their pool — that is all but Ballinger, who,
by a most strenuous effort, kept silent. The canny
Scot listened to them without comment until they had
finished, then turned suddenly to the silent Ballinger.
“Ballinger,” said he, “you know more about North-

way Steel stock than any of these men, for you have
been heavily interested in it for several years. Are
they paying their dividends regularly? Do you con-
sider this pool a safe investment for me?”

“They passed their last dividend,” he answered, to
the horror of his friends, “and it is not what I would
call a safe investment, but we need you badly to join
us, for if you don’t, we are in for a heavy loss.”

“Thanks, Ballinger,” said Andrews, walking toward
the door, “you are one of the few absolutely truthful
stock-brokers, but Northway Steel is not my kind of
investment.”

There was a moment’s silence after the door closed
on the retreating Andrews, then they opened up on
Ballinger and what they told him was, for the most part,
entirely unprintable. All he could answer to their ter-
rible tongue lashings was :

“It was the truth, it was the truth.”

To which one of them replied: “From being the
biggest liar in Wall Street, you have become so pain-
fully truthful that I, for one, want nothing more to
do with you — and that's a promise.”

Reckoning up results now some six months after
his operation, he found that he had lost thousands and
thousands of dollars, almost half of his fortune, by
persistently telling the exact truth about various deals
in stocks. His wife had left him and he was a social
outcast, without a man whom he could call friend. In
his extremity, he thought again of Dr. Wentworth and
again called at his home.

“Doctor,” said he sorrowfully. “When I called on
you before, I thought my plight was as bad as it could
be, but I was mistaken, for I am now a hundred times
worse off than then. From being a very big liar you
have changed me to the most truthful man in the world.
The change has cost me my wife, half my fortune and
all of my friends. I am convinced that the world has
little use for a teller of truths.”

“Why that is bad.” said the doctor with keen sym-
pathy. “Tell me just what happened.”

Ballinger then launched into a detailed account of
the hundred and one .incidents that had caused his
downfall, explaining that he had found it impossible
to answer any question except with the exact truth.

“You should have come to me at once,” said Dr.
Wentworth. “A very simple operation to slightly elong-
ate the Ananias Gland will remedy the trouble. In
the previous operation, I removed a little too much of
the gland, making you absolutely truthful, which will
not do at all. By making the gland slightly longer, you
will be reasonably truthful, but with discretion. You
know David in his Psalms said : ‘All men are liars.’ I
am inclined to agree with him and it is well, for if it
were not so, society, civilization, would soon be in
chaos. The man who will not lie a bit to save the feel-
ings of another, in my opinion, is no gentleman.”

Six months after the second operation, we find Geo.
F. Ballinger a very happy man with a fond wife by
his side, a constantly widening circle of friends and
in a fair way to regain the lost portion of his fortune —
but he now handles truth with an economy that amounts
almost to parsimony.

THE END

Ey David H. Keller, M.D.

Author of: “The Revolt of the Pedestrians,” “The Biological Experiment,” etc.

AM mad! Just plain mad!”

“Well, it cannot be helped now,” replied
the woman’s husband. “I am just as sorry
as you are about it, but the baby is here
now and some one has to take care of it.”
all that,” said Susanna Teeple. “I want
her to be well cared for, but I have my work to do and
I have a real chance now to make a good income
writing regularly for the Business Woman’s Advisor.
I can easily make a thousand dollars a month if I can
only find the time to do the work. I simply cannot
do my work and care for the baby also. It was all a
great mistake, having the baby now.”

“But I make enough to hire a nurse,” insisted the
husband.

“Certainly, but where can I find one? The women
who need the money are all working at seven hours a
day and all the good nurses are in hospitals. I have
searched all over town and they just laugh at me when
I start talking to them.”

“Take care of her yourself. Systematize the work.
Make a budget of your time, and a definite daily pro-
gramme. Would you like me to employ an efficiency
engineer? I have just had a man working along those
lines in my factory. Bet he could help you a lot. In-
vestigate the modern electrical machinery for taking
care of the baby. Write down your troubles and my
inventor will start working
on them.”

“You talk just like a
man !” replied the woman
in cold anger. “Your sug-
gestions show that you have
no idea whatever of the
problem of taking care of a
three-weeks-old baby. I have
used all the brains I have,
and it takes me exactly
seven hours a day. If
the seven hours would all come at one time, I could
spare them, but during the last three days, since I
have kept count, I have been interrupted from my
writing exactly one hundred and ten times every
twenty-four hours and only about five per cent of those
interruptions could have been avoided. The baby has
to be fed and changed and washed and the bottles
have to be sterilized and the crib fixed and the nursery
cleaned, and just when I have her all right she regurgi-
tates and then everything has to be done all over
again. I just wish you had to take care of her for

twenty-four hours, then you would know more than you
do now. I have tried some of those electrical machines
you speak of : had them on approval, but they were
not satisfactory. The vacuum evaporator clogged up
with talcum powder and the curd evacuator worked
all right so long as it was over the mouth, but once
the baby turned her head and the machine nearly pulled
her ear off, before I found out why she was crying so.
It would be wonderful if a baby could be taken care
of by machinery, but I am afraid it will never be
possible.”

“I believe it will,” said the husband. “Of course,
even if the machine worked perfectly, it could not sup-
ply a mother’s love.”

“That idea of mother-love belongs to the dark ages,”
sneered the disappointed woman. “We know now that
a child does not know what love is till it develops the
ability to think. Women have been deceiving them-
selves. They believed their babies loved them because
they wanted to think so. When my child is old enough
to know what love is, I will be properly demonstrative
and not before. I have read very carefully what Hug-
Hellmuth has written about the psychology of the baby
and no child of mine is going to develop unhealthy
complexes because I indulged it in untimely love and
unnecessary caresses. I notice that you have kissed it
when you thought I was not watching. How would
you feel if, because of those
kisses, your daughter de-
veloped an Edipus Complex
when she reached the age
of maturity? I am going
to differ with you in regard
to the machine ; it will never
be possible to care for a
baby by means of ma-
chinery !”

“I believe it will !” in-
sisted the man.

That evening he took the air-express for New York
City, and when he returned, after some days absence,
he was very uncommunicative in regard to the trip
and what he had accomplished. Mrs. Teeple continued
to take very good care of her baby, and also lost no
opportunity of letting her husband realize what a
sacrifice she was making for her family. The husband
continued to preserve a dignified silence. Then, about
two weeks after his New York trip, he sent his wife
out for the afternoon and said that he would stay
home and be nurse, just to see how it would go. After

"I admit

TOEING a psychiatrist, Dr. Keller is naturally interested ,
not so much in the mechanical advances of the age, as
in the psychological effects of these devices on the human
being.

If a mechanical house-maid is possible, why not a mechani-
cal nurse ? And a mechanical sweetheart? The many ad-
vantages to be derived from such an arrangement are many ,
and Dr. Keller puts these forth very clearly, though satiric-
cally. The story is realistic and beautifully told, and the
denouement is entirely unexpected.

710

1 stpfisg

Sissy*'

»»

gste®^

giggii

Let me show you how she works. She is made of a combination of springs, levers, acoustic instruments,
and by means of tubes such as are used in radio, she is very sensitive to sounds.

711

712

AMAZING STORIES

giving a thousand detailed instructions, the fond mother
left for the party.

On her return, she found her husband calmly read-
ing in the library. Going to the nursery, she found
the baby asleep and by the side of the crib she saw a
fat, black woman, clad in the spotless dress of a gradu-
ate nurse. She seemed to be as fast asleep as the
child. Surprised, Mrs. Teeple walked to her husband’s
chair.

“Well, what does this mean?” she demanded.

“That, my dear, is our new nurse.”

“Where did you get her?”

“I bought her in New York. In fact, I had her
made to order.”

“You what?” asked the astonished woman.

“I had her made to order by the Eastinghouse Elec-
tric Company. You see, she is just a machine nurse,
but as she does not eat anything, is on duty twenty-
four hours a day and draws no salary, she is cheap at
the price I paid for her.”

“Are you insane, or am I ?”

“Neither. Certainly not your husband. Let me
show you how she works. She is made of a combina-
tion of springs, levers, acoustic instruments, and by
means of tubes such as are used in the radio, she is
very sensitive to sounds. She is connected to the
house lighting current by a long, flexible cord, which
supplies her with the necessary energy. To simplify
matters, I had the orders put into numbers instead of
sentences. One means that the baby is to be fed ; seven
that she is to be changed. Twelve that it is time for a
bath. I have a map made showing the exact position
of the baby, the pile of clean diapers, the full bottles
of milk, the clean sheets, in fact, everything needed to
care for the baby during the twenty-four hours. In
the morning, all you have to do is. to see that every-
thing needed is in its place. At six a.m. you go into
the nursery and say one in a loud, clear voice. The
nurse reaches over to the row of bottles, picks up one
and puts the nipple in the baby’s mouth. At the end
of ten minutes it takes the empty bottle and puts it back
in the row. At six-thirty, you say clearly and dis-
tinctly, seven. The nurse removes the wet diaper, takes
a can of talcum, uses it, puts it back, takes a diaper
and pins it on the baby. Then she sits down.”

"I think that you are drunk !” said the woman, coolly.

“Not at all. You feel of her and see. She is just
a lot of rods and wires and machinery. I had her
padded and a face put on, because I thought she would
look more natural that way.”

“Suppose all that you say is true. How can that
help me. I have to see what the baby needs and then
I have to look through the book and see what number
to say and then I suppose I have to stay and watch
the old thing work. I wanted a chance to work at my
books and this — why, it is ridiculous!”

Her husband laughed at her.

l ‘\7‘OU are a nice little womar. Susanna, but you

1 certainly lack imagination. When I ordered
this machine, I thought about all that and so I bought
a phonograph with a clock attachment. It will run

for twenty-four hours without attention. Then I had
a baby doctor work out a twenty-four hour programme
of baby activity for different ages Our baby is about
two months old. You put this phonograph in the
nursery with the two-month record on it. At six in
the morning you see that all the supplies for that
day are in the proper place; you see that the Psycho-
phonic Nurse is in her proper place; the baby must
be in her proper place. Then you attach the electric
current to the phonograph and to the nurse and start
the record. At definite periods of the twenty-four
hours the phonograph will call out a number and then
the nurse will do what is necessary for that hour.
It will feed the baby so often and change it so often
and bathe it so often. You sta' t it at six and leave
it alone till six the next mornir.g.”

“That sounds fine,” said the wife, sarcastically, but
suppose the baby gets wet between times? Suppose it
starts to cry?”

“I thought of that, too. In every diaper is a fine
copper wire. When that becomes wet a delicate current
is sent — you understand I mean an electrical current,
not a watery one — this current goes to an amplifier
and a certain sound is made, and the nurse will prop-
erly react to that sound. We have also provided for
crying. When the baby does that, the nurse will pick
the little one up and rock her to sleep.”

“But the books say that to do that spoils the baby !”

“I know. I thought of that. But then the poor
little thing has to have some love and affection in her
life and so I thought it would not harm it any to be
rocked now and then. That was one reason why
I had the padding made the way that I did. I bet
it will be mighty comfortable-like for the child. Then
again, you know I had a black Mammy and I wanted
my child to have one, too.”

“Well,” said the woman, rather petulantly, “show
me how the thing works. I have a lot of writing to
do and unless I do it, they will employ some one else.”

After two hours of close observation, she had to
admit that the Nurse was just as capable of mechan-
ically looking after the needs of a baby as she was.
In fact, the cleverness of the performance made her
gasp with astonishment. After each series of com-
plicated acts, the machine went back to the chaw and
sat down.

The husband was triumphant.

“She does the work nicely,” he said. “Naturally,
there is no intelligence, but none is needed in the
early months of child-care.”

The Psychophonic Nurse performed her duties in a
way that would have been a credit to any woman. Of
course there were times when things did not go as
well as they should, but the fault was always with the
human side of the arrangement and not with the
mechanical. Usually the mother was to blame because
she did not place the supply of food or clothes in
exactly the right place and once a new servant played
havoc by cleaning the room and putting the nurse and
the chair on the wrong side of the crib. Still, with a
little supervision and care, things went very well in-
deed, and in a very short time the baby became accus-

THE PSYCHOPHONIC NURSE

713

tomed to her black Mammy and the Mother was satis-
fied to spend a few minutes every morning arranging
supplies and then leave the two of them alone for the
rest of the twenty-four hours. Every two weeks a
new record was placed in the phonograph, for it was
determined that it was necessary to make a change in
the programme at least that often.

Mrs. Teeple, thoroughly happy with her new free-
dom, now devoted her entire time to literature. Her
articles, which appeared in the Saturday issue of The
Business Woman’s Advisor, were more than brilliant
and aroused the most favorable comment from all parts
of the world. An 'English firm asked her to write a
book on “Woman, the Conqueror,” and so relieved
was she of household worries, that she started at once
to pound out the introduction on her noiseless, elec-
trical typewriter. Once in a while she felt the need of
exercise and would stroll around the house, and occa-
sionally look into the nursery. Now and then she
would pick the little one up. As the child grew older,
this made her cry, so the Mother decided that it was
best not to interfere with the daily routine.

In spite of their efforts to conceal the activity of their
new assistant, the news spread through the little town.
The neighbors called, and while they had all kinds of
excuses, there was no doubt about what it was they
really wanted to see. Of course, opinions differed, and
rather sharply. There were some of the older women
who fearlessly denounced such conduct as uncondi-
tionally bad, but most of the women were secretly
jealous and demanded that their husbands also buy a
mechanical nurse-maid.

T HE news spread beyond the confines of the town.

Descriptions of a most interesting and erroneous
nature began to appear in the newspapers. Finally, to
avoid unscientific criticism, Mrs. Teeple wrote a full
account of the way she was raising her child and sold
it to the New York Comet, fully illustrated, for five
thousand dollars. At once the Eastinghouse Electric
Company was swamped with orders which they simply
filed for future delivery. The entire machine was cov-
ered with patents and these were all the property of
Teeple, who, for the time being, simply said that he
wanted to make further studies before he would con-
sider the sale of his rights.

For several months it seemed that the discussion
would never end. College debating teams selected as
their subject, Shall the Child of the Future Be
Raised by the Mother or by a Psychophonic
Nurse? The leaders of the industrial world spent
anxious evenings wondering whether such an invention
would not simplify the labor problem. Very early in
the social furor that was aroused, Henry Cecil, who
had taken the place of Wells as an author of scientific-
tion, wrote a number of brilliant articles in which he
showed a world where all the work was done by simi-
lar machines. Not only the work of nurses, but of
mechanics, day laborers, and farmers could be done
by machinery. He told of an age when mankind, re-
lieved of the need of labor, could enter into a golden
age of ease. The working day would be one hour

long. Each mechanician would go to the factory, oil
and adjust a dozen automatons, see that they had the
material for twenty-four hours labor and then turn
on the electric current and leave them working till the
next day.

Life, Henry Cecil said, would not only become easier,
but also better in every way. Society, relieved of the
necessity of paying labor, would be able to supply
the luxuries of life to everyone. No more would
women toil in the kitchen and men on the farm. The
highest civilization could be attained because mankind
would now have time and leisure to play.

And in his argument he showed that, while workmen
in the large assembling plants had largely become
machines in their automatic activities, still they had
accidents and sickness and discontent, ending in trouble-
some strikes. These would all be avoided by mechani-
cal workmen; of course, for a while there would have
to be human supervision, but if it were possible to
make a machine that would work, why not make one
that would supervise the work of other machines? If
one machine could use raw material, why could not
other machines be trained to distribute the supplies
and carry away the finished product. Cecil foresaw
the factory of the future running twenty-four hours
a day and seven days a week, furnishing everything
necessary for the comfort of the human race At once
the ministers of the Gospel demanded a six-day week
for the machines, and a proper observance of the
Sabbath.

Strange though it may seem, all this discussion seemed
natural to the general public. For years they had been
educated to use electrical apparatus in their homes.
The scrubbing and polishing of floors, the washing of
dishes, the washing and ironing of clothes, the sewing
of clothes, the grass cutting, the cleaning of the furni-
ture, had all been done by electricity for many years.
In every department of the world’s activity, the white
servant, electricity, was being used. In a little West-
tern town a baby was actually being cared for by a
Psychophonic Nurse. If one baby, why not all babies?
If a machine could do that work, why could not ma-
chines be made to do any other kind of work?

The lighter fiction began to use the idea. A really
clever article appeared in The London Spode, the mag-
azine of society in England. It commented on the high
cost of human companionship, and how much the aver-
age young woman demanded of her escort, not only
in regard to the actual cash expenditure, but also of
his time. When he should be resting and gaining
strength for his labors in the office, she demanded long
evenings at the theater or dance hall or petting parties
in lonely automobiles. The idea was advanced that
every man should have a psychophonic affinity. He
could take her to the restaurant, but she would not
eat, at the theater she could be checked with his opera
cloak and top hat. If he wanted to dance, she would
dance with him and she would stop just when he wanted
her to and then in his apartment, he could pet her
and she would pet him and there would be no scandal.
He could buy her in a store, blonde or brunette and
when he was tired of her, he could trade her in for

714

AMAZING STORIES

the latest model, with the newest additions and latest
line of phonographic chatter records. Every woman
could have a mechanical lover. He could do the
housework in the daytime while she was at the office,
and at night he could act as escort in public or pet her
in private. The phonograph would declare a million
times, “I love you,” and a million times his arms would
demonstrate the truth of the declaration. For some
decades the two sexes had become more and more
discontented with each other. Psychophonic lovers
would solve all difficulties of modern social life.

N ATURALLY, this issue of the spode was re-
fused admission to the United States on the
grounds of being immoral literature. At once it was
extensively “bootlegged” and was read by millions of
people, who otherwise would never have heard of it.
A new phrase was added to the slang. Men who for-
merly were called dumb-bells, were now referred to
as psychophonic affinities. If a man was duller than
usual, his girl friend would say, “Get a better electric
attachment. Your radio tubes are wearing out and
your wires are rusting. It is about time I exchanged
you for a newer model.”

In the meantime, life in the Teeple home was pro-
gressing as usual. Mrs. Teeple had all the time she
could use for her literary work and was making a name
for herself in the field of letters. She was showing
her husband and friends just what a woman could do,
if she had the leisure to do it. She felt that in no
way was she neglecting her child. One hour every
morning was spent in preparing the supplies and the
modified milk for the following twenty-four hours.
After that she felt perfectly safe in leaving the child
with the mechanical nurse ; in fact, she said that she
felt more comfortable than if the baby were being
cared for by an ignorant, uninterested girl.

The baby soon learned that the black woman was
the one who did everything for her and all the love
of the child was centered on her nurse. For some
months it did not seem to realize much more than that
it was being cared for in a very competent manner
and was always very comfortable. Later on it found
out that this care would not come unless it was in a
very definite position on the bed. This was after it
had started to roll around the bed. Dimly it must
have found out that the nurse had certain limitations,
for it began to learn to always return to its correct
position in the middle of the crib. Naturally, diffi-
culties arose while she was learning to do this. Once
she was upside down and the nurse was absolutely
unable to pin on the diaper, but the baby, frightened,
started to cry and the machine picked it up and by a
clever working of the mechanism put her down in the
right position. By the time the baby was a year old a
very good working partnership had been formed be-
tween the two and at times the nurse was even teach-
ing the little child to eat with a spoon and drink out
of a cup. Of course various adjustments had to be
made from time to time, but this was not a matter of
any great difficulty.

Tired with the work of the day. Mrs. Teeple always

slept soundly. Her husband, on the other hand, often
wandered around the house during the night, and on
such occasions developed the habit of visiting the
nursery. He would sit there silently for hours, watch-
ing the sleeping baby and the sleepless nurse.

This did not satisfy him, so his next step was to
disconnect the electric current which enabled the nurse
to move and care for the baby. Now, with the phono-
graph quiet and the nurse unable to respond to the
stimuli from the baby and the phonograph, the Father
took care of the child. Of course, there was not much
to do, but it thrilled him to do even that little, and now,
for nearly a half year, the three of them led a double
life. The machine sat motionless all night till life was
restored in the early morning, when Teeple connected
her to an electric socket. The baby soon learned the
difference between the living creature who so often
cared for it at night and the Black Mammy, and while
she loved the machine woman, still she had a different
kind of affection for the great warm man who so ten-
derly and awkwardly did what was needful for her
comfort during the dark hours of the night. She had
special sounds that she made just for him and to her
delight he answered her and somehow, the sounds he
made pulled memories of similar sounds from the deep
well of her inherited memory and by the time she was
a year old she knew many words which she only used
in the darkness— talking with the man — and she called
him Father.

He thrilled when he held her little soft body close
to his own and felt her little hand close around his
thumb. He would wait till she was asleep and then
would silently kiss her on the top of her head, well-
covered with soft new hair, colored like the sunshine.
He told her over and over, that he loved her, and
gradually she learned what the words meant and
“cooed” her appreciation. They developed little games
to be played in the darkness, and very silently, be-
cause no matter how happy they were, they must never,
never wake up Mother, for if she ever knew what was
going on at night, they could never play again.

The man was happy in his new companionship with
his baby.

He told himself that those hours made life worth
while.

After some months of such nocturnal activity, Mrs.
Teeple observed that her husband came to the break-
fast table rather sleepy. As she had no actual knowl-
edge of how he spent his nights, it was easy for her
to imagine. Being an author, imagination was one
of her strongest mental faculties. Being a woman, it
was necessary for her to voice these suspicions.

“You seem rather sleepy in the mornings. Are you
going with another woman?”

Teeple looked at her with narrowing eyelids.

“What if I am?” he demanded. “That was part of
our companionate wedding contract — that we could do
that sort of thing if we wanted to.”

As this was the truth, Susanna Teeple knew that
she had no argument, but she was not ready to stop
talking.

“I should think that the mere fact that you are the

THE PS YCH0PH0N1C NURSE

715

father of an innocent child should keep your morals
clean. Think of her and your influence on her.”

“I do think of that. In fact, only yesterday I ar-
ranged to have some phonographic records made that,
in addition to everything else, would teach the baby
how to talk. I have asked an old friend of mine who
teaches English at Harvard to make that part of the
record, so that from the first, the baby’s pronunciation
will be perfect. I am also considering having another
Psychophonic Nurse made with man’s clothes. The
Black Mammy needs some repairs, and it is about
time that our child had the benefit of a father’s love.
It needs the masculine influence. I will have it made
my size and we can dress it in some of my clothes and
have an artist paint a face that looks like me. In that
way the child will gradually grow to know me and by
the time she is three years old I will be able to play
with her and she will be friendly instead of frightened.
In the twilight, the neighbors will think that I am
taking the child out in the baby carriage for an airing
and will give me credit for being a real father.”

The wife looked at him. At times she did not under-
stand him.

I T was just a few days after this conversation that
Mrs. Teeple called her husband up at the factory.
“I wish you would come home as soon as you can.”
“What is the matter?”

“I think the baby has nephritis.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a disease I have just been reading about. I
happened to go into the nursery and Black Mammy
has had to change the baby twenty-seven times since
this morning.”

Teeple assured his wife that he would be right home
and that she should leave everything just as it was.
He lost no time in the journey; since he had been tak-
ing care of the baby at night, it had become very
precious to him

His wife met him at the door.

“How do you know Mammy had to change her so
often?”

“I counted the napkins, and the awful part was that
many of them were not moist, just mussed up a little.”

Teeple went to the nursery. He watched the baby
for some minutes in silence. Then he took her hand,
and finally he announced his decision:

“I do not think there is anything wrong with her.”
“Of course you ought to know. You are such an
expert on baby diseases.” His wife was quite sar-
castic in her tone.

“Oh ! I am not a doctor, but I have a lot of com-
mon sense. To-morrow is Sunday. Instead of golfing,
I will stay at home and observe her. You leave the
typewriter alone for a day and stay with me, won’t
you ?”

“I wish I could, but I am just finishing my book on
‘Perfect Harmony Between Parent and Child,’ and I
must finish it before Monday morning, so you will
, have to do your observing by yourself. I think, how-
ever, that it would be best for you to send for a
Doctor.”

It did not take long for Teeple to find out what was
wrong. The baby was learning to talk and had devel-
oped a habit of saying, very often, sounds that were
very similar to Seven. This was the sound to which
the Psychophonic Nurse had been attuned to react by
movements resulting in a change of napkins. The baby
had learned the sound from the phonograph and was
imitating it so perfectly that the machine reacted to it,
being unable to tell that it was not the voice from the
phonograph, or the electrical stimulus from the wet
pad. When Teeple found out what was the trouble,
he had to laugh in spite of his serious thoughts. A
very simple, change in the mechanism blotted out the
sound Seven, and cured the baby’s nephritis.

T WO weeks later, the inventor introduced his wife
to the new male nurse who was to be a Father
substitute. The machinery had been put into a form
about the size of Teeple, the face was rather like his
and he wore a blue serge suit that had become second
best the previous year.

“This is a very simple machine,” Teeple told his
wife. “For the present it will be used only to take
the baby out in our new baby-carriage. The carriage
holds storage batteries and a small phonograph. We
will put the baby in the carriage and attach Jim Henry
to the handles, pointing him down the country lane,
which fortunately is smooth, straight as an arrow and
but little used. We attach the storage batteries to him
and to the phonograph, which at once gives the com-
mand, “Start.” Then, after a half hour, it will give
the command, “About Face— Start,” and in exactly
another half hour, when it is exactly in front of the
house, it will give the command “Halt.” Then you or
the servant will have to come out and put everything
away and place the baby back in the crib under the
care of the mechanical nurse This will give the baby
an hour’s exercise and fresh air. Of course she can
be given an extra hour if you think it best. If you
have an early supper and start the baby and Jim Henry
out just as the sun is setting, the neighbors will think
that it is really a live Father who is pushing the car-
riage. Rather clever, don't you think?”

“I think it is a good idea for the baby to go outdoors
every day. The rest of it, having it look like you, seems
rather idiotic. Are you sure the road is safe?”

“Certainly. You know that it is hardly used except
by pedestrians and everyone will be careful when they
meet a little baby in a carriage. There are no deep
gutters, the road is level, there are no houses and no
dogs. Jim Henry will take it for an hour’s airing and
bring it back safely. You do not suppose that I
would deliberately advise anything that would harm
the child, do you?”

“Oh ! I suppose not, but you are so queer at times.”
“I may seem queer, but I assure you that I have a
good reason for everything I do.”

Anyone watching him closely that summer would
have seen that this last statement was true. He in-
sisted on an early supper, five at the latest, and then
he always left the house, giving one excuse or another,
usually an important engagement at the factory. He

716

AMAZING STORIES

made his wife promise that at once after supper she
would start Jim Henry out with the baby in the car-
riage. Mrs. Teeple was glad enough to do this, as
it gave her an hour’s uninterrupted leisure to work
in her study. The mechanical man would start briskly
down the road and in a few minutes disappear into a
clump of willows. Here Teeple sat waiting. He also
was dressed in a blue serge suit. He would make the
mechanical man lifeless by disconnecting him from the
storage batteries, place him carefully amid the willows
and, taking his place, would happily push the carriage
down the road. He would leave the phonograph at-
tached to the battery. When it called “About Face,”
he would turn the carriage around and start for home.
When he reached the willows, he would attach the
mechanical nurse to the carriage and let it take the
baby home. Sometimes when it was hot, the baby,
the Father and Jim Henry would rest on a blanket,
in the shade of the willows. Teeple would read poetry
to his child and teach her new words, while Jim Henry
would lie quietly near them, a look of happy innocence
on his unchanging face.

The few neighbors who were in the habit of using
that road after supper became accustomed to seeing
the little man in the blue serge suit taking care of the
baby. They complimented him in conversations with
their wives and the ladies lost no time in relaying the
compliment to Mrs. Teeple, who smiled in a very
knowing way and said in reply :

“It certainly is wonderful to have a mechanical hus-
band. Have you read my new book on “Happiness in
the Home”? It is arousing a great deal of interest in
the larger cities.”

She told her husband what they said and he also
smiled. Almost all of the men he had met during the
evening hour were Masons and he knew they could
be trusted.

When the baby was a year old, Mrs. Teeple decided
that it was time to make a serious effort to teach the
child to talk. She told her husband that she wanted to
do this herself and was willing to take fifteen minutes
a day from her literary work for this duty. She asked
her husband if he had any suggestions to make. If
not, she was willing and able to assume the entire
responsibility. He replied that he had been reading
up on this subject and would write her out a list of
twenty words which were very easy for a baby to learn.
He did this, and that night she met him with a very
grandiose air and stated that she had taught the baby
to say all twenty of the words perfectly in one lesson.
She believed that she would write an article on the
subject. It was very interesting to see how eager the
child was to learn. Teeple simply grinned. The list
he had given her was composed of words that he and
the baby had been working with for some months, not
only at night, but also during the evening hour under
the willows.

By that fall, Mrs. Teeple was convinced that Watson,
in his book called “Psychological Care of Infant and
Child,” was absolutely right when he wrote that every
child would be better, if it were raised without the
harmful influence of mother love. She wrote him a

long personal letter about her experience with the
Psychophonic Nurse. He wrote back, saying that he
was delighted, and asked her to write a chapter for the
second edition of his hook. “I have always known,”
he wrote at the end of the letter, “that a mechanical
nurse was better than an untrained mother. Your
experience proves this to be the truth. I wish that you
could persuade your husband to put the machine on
the market and make it available to millions of mothers
who want to do the right thing, but have not the neces-
sary intelligence. Every child is better without a love
life. Your child will grow into an adult free from
complexes.”

Mr. Teeple smiled some more when he read that
letter.

I T was a pleasant day in early November. If any-
thing, the day was too warm. There was no wind
and the sky over western Kansas was dull and cop-
pery. Teeple asked for a supper earlier than usual
and at once left the house, telling his wife that the
Masons were having a very special meeting and that
he had promised to attend. Thoroughly accustomed to
having him away from home in the evening, Mrs.
Teeple prepared Jim Henry and started him down the
road, pushing the little carriage with the happy baby
safely strapped in it. Then she went back to her work.

Jim Henry had left the house at five-fifteen. At
five-forty-five he would turn around, and at six-fifteen
he would be back with the baby. It was a definite
programme and she had learned, by experience, that it
worked safely one hundred per cent of the time. At
five-thirty a cold wind began to whine around the
house and she went and closed all the windows. It
grew dark and then, without warning, it started to
snow. By five-forty-five the house was engulfed in the
blizzard that was sweeping down from Alaska. The
wind tore the electric light poles down and the house
was left in darkness.

And Susanna Teeple thought of her child in a baby
carriage out in the storm in the care of an electrical
nurse. Her first thought was to telephone to her hus-
band at the Lodge, but she at once found out that the
telephone wires had been broken at the same time that
the light wires had snapped. She found the servant
girl crying and frightened in the kitchen and realized
that she could expect no help from her.

Wrapping a shawl around her, she opened the front
door and started down the road to find her baby. Five
minutes later she was back in the house, breathless
and hysterical with fright. It took her another five
minutes to close and fasten the door. The whole house
was being swayed by the force of the wind. Outside
she heard trees snapping and cracking. A crash on
top of the house told of the fall of a chimney. She
tried to light a lamp, but even in the house the flame
could not live. Going to her bedroom, she found an
electric torch and, turning it on, she put it in the win-
dow and started to pray. She had not prayed for
years ; since her early adolescence she had prided her-
self on the fact that she had learned to live without a
Creator whose very existence she doubted. Now she

THE PSYCHOPHONIC NURSE

717

was on her knees. Sobbing, she sank to the floor and,
stuporous with grief, fell asleep.

A S was his nightly custom, Teeple waited in the wil-
. lows for Jim Henry and the baby carriage. He
disconnected the mechanical man and put him under a
blanket by the roadside; then he started down the
road, singing foolish songs to the baby as they went
together into the sunset. He had not gone far when
the rising wind warned him of the approaching storm
and he at once turned the carriage and started towards
home. In five minutes he had all he could do to push
the carriage in the teeth of the wind. Then came the
snow, and he knew that only by the exercise of all of
his adult intelligence could he save the life of his child.
There was no shelter except the clump of willows.
Every effort had to be made to reach those bushy trees,
Jim Henry and the blanket that covered him. One
thousand feet lay between the willows and the Teeple
home and the man knew that if the storm continued,
they could easily die, trying to cover that last thousand
feet. It was growing dark so fast that it was a seri-
ous question if he could find the clump of willows. He
realized that if he once left the road, they were doomed.

He stopped for a few seconds, braced himself against
the wind, took off his coat and wrapped it around the
crying child. Then he went on, fast as he could,
breathing when he could and praying continuously.
God answered him by sending occasional short lulls
in the tornado. He finally reached the willows, and
instinct helped him find Jim Henry, still covered by
the blanket, which was now held to the ground by a
foot of snow.

The man wrapped the baby up as well as he could,
put the pillow down next to Jim Henry, now partly
uncovered, put the baby on the pillow, crawled next
to her, pulled the blanket over all three as best he
could, and started to sing. The carriage, no longer
held, was blown far over the prairie. In a half hour,
Teeple felt the weight and the warmth of the blanket
of snow. He believed that the baby was asleep.
Unable to do anything more, he also fell asleep. In
spite of everything, he was happy and told himself
that it was a wonderful thing to be a Father.

During the night the storm passed and the morning
came clear, with sunshine on the snow drifts. Mrs.
Teeple awoke, built a fire, helped the servant prepare
breakfast and then went for help. The walking was
hard, but she finally reached the next house. The
woman was alone, her husband having gone to the
Masonic Lodge the night before. The two of them
went on to the next house, and to the next and finally
in the distance they found the entire Blue Lodge break-
ing their way through the snow drifts. They had been
forced to spend the entire night there, but had had a
pleasant time in spite of their anxiety. To Mrs.
Teeple’s surprise, her husband was not with them. She
told her story and appealed for help. The Master of
the Lodge listened in sympathetic silence.

“Mr. Teeple was not at the Lodge last night,” he
finally said. “I believe he was with your baby.”

“That is impossible,” exclaimed the hysterical woman.

“The baby was out with the new model Psychophonic
Nurse. Mr. Teeple never goes out with the baby. In
fact, he knows nothing about the baby. He never
notices her in any way.”

T HE Master looked at his Senior Warden, and
they exchanged “unspoken words.” Then he looked
at the members of his Lodge. They were all anxious
to return to their families, but there were several there
who were not married. He called these by name, asked
them to go to his home with him and get some coffee,
and then join him in the hunt for the baby. Mean-
time he urged Mrs. Teeple to go home and get the
house warm and the breakfast ready. She could do no
good by staying out in the cold.

The Master of the Blue Lodge knew Teeple. He
had often seen him under the willows talking to the
baby. Instinctively he went there first, followed by the
young men. Breaking their way through the drifts,
they finally arrived at the clump of trees and there
found what they were looking for — a peculiar hillock
of snow, which, when it was broken into, revealed a
blanket, and under the blanket were a crying baby, a
sick man and a mechanical nurse The baby, on the
pillow, wrapped up in her Father’s coat, and protected
on one side by his body and on the other side by the
padded and clothed Jim Henry, had kept fairly warm.
Teeple, on the outside, without a coat and barely cov-
ered by the edge of the blanket, had become thoroughly
chilled.

It was days before he recovered from his pneumonia
and weeks before he had much idea of what had hap-
pened or of his muttering conversations while sick.
For once in his life, he thoroughly spoke of everything
he had been thinking of during the past fifteen months
— spoke without reservation or regard for the feelings
of his wife— and above all else he told of his great love
for his child and how he had cared for it during the
dark hours of the night and the twilight hour after
supper.

Susanna Teeple heard him. Silent by his bedside,
she heard him bare his soul and she realized, even
though the thought tortured her, that her ambition had
been the means of estranging her husband and her child
from her, and that to both of them she was practically
a stranger. During the first days of her husband's ill-
ness she had placed the entire care of the child in the
hands of the Black Mammy. Later it was necessary
to get nurses to care for her husband, and as he grew
stronger, there was less and less work for the wife.
Restless, she went to the kitchen, but there a competent
servant was doing the work : in the sick-room, gradu-
ate nurses cared for her husband; in the nursery, her
baby was being nursed by a machine, and her little
one would cry when she came near as though protest-
ing against the presence of a stranger. The only place
where she had work to do and was needed was in her
study, and there the orders for magazine articles were
accumulating.

She tried her soul. As judge, witness and prisoner,
she tried her soul and she knew that she had failed.

( Continued on page 737)

m * MO ON MEN

By Fran\ Brueci\el,Jr.

Foreword

B ACHUS was introduced to me at the home of
a friend of mine, where both of us were spend-
ing our vacations. He impressed me as being
a strange personality front the first, and, curiosity being
one of my chief characteristics, I determined to find
out what I could of him. I discovered that he had
traveled quite a little, and, as travel has a particular
fascination for me. I pumped him on his experiences
in different parts of the world.

I demanded to know what he had done the summer
before, whereupon he answered that he had been away.
Upon my inquiring where, he looked at me with a long,
steady stare, then asked me to come to his room. There
he showed me a manuscript, stating that it contained
the facts of his last year’s experiences. He gave me
permission to read it, and I did so in my room that
night. I didn’t believe it, but I complimented Mr.
Bachus on his brass nerve in trying to tell such stuff
to a rational-minded person.

Here is what I read :

Chapter I.

Into Infinity

BY name is Clyde Bachus. I am thirty- four
years old and was born in Montana. My
father was an amateur astronomer, and the
wealth he inherited enabled him to con-
struct a fairly well equipped observatory,
which he devoted entirely to the study of the Moon
and the planets Venus, Mars and Jupiter.

With his constant companion and friend, Lloyd, at

his side, he tried to solve

the Mars riddle, attempting
dozens of magnifying lenses
in dozens of ways to bring
the ruddy planet to a range
where intelligent handi-
work could be indisputably
made out, but he never suc-
ceeded.

So Lloyd determined to

undertake what had baffled

so many before him — the construction of a space-flyer.
For five years he studied and experimented, working
day and night on his project.

“We do not know just what gravity is,” he said to
me one day, “but I personally believe it to be some
sort of wave-motion emanating from every concentra-
tion of matter. I believe that it is produced by the
motion of electrons revolving about the nucleus of
every atom of matter. You know, of course, that if
you take a board and move it swiftly in a circular
motion in a pool of water, any small objects floating
on the pool’s surface will be rapidly drawn round and

round, and finally be pulled to the middle of the little
whirlpool, where it will be sucked down into the water.
In the same way, I believe the revolution of the elec-
trons create a sort of suction in the ether, drawing
everything toward them. The greater the number of
atoms, and consequently the greater the material ob-
ject, the greater the force of this suction. If my
theory is correct, if gravity is a wave with definite
sources of emanation, then I believe we will have a
space-projectile in a short time. I have an idea — ” and
his voice trailed off into silence. Then he turned and
went to his laboratory.

O NE day he came dashing up the steps of the ver-
anda, waving a square, opaque plate about his

head.

“I’ve got it!” he shrieked, “I’ve got it!”

My father and I rose from our chairs.

“Got what?” I demanded.

Still waving the metal plate about, Lloyd explained
that at last he had succeeded in combining several
metallic elements which, when a powerful current of
electricity passed through it, had the power not
merely of nullifying gravity, but of reflecting this
wave-motion back upon its source of emanation, thereby
transforming it into a repulsive force.

After that, things went swiftly. In a short time a
small experimental rocket, its cabin filled with a power-
ful explosive, was sent to the Moon, and as the rocket
landed on the unilluminated part of the moon (it was
in its first quarter) the powder exploded at the con-
cussion, the flash being seen by Lloyd and father at
their telescopes. It had taken the rocket thirty minutes
to reach its goal, but Lloyd claimed that his space-ship

could go faster.

~ “““ “ Immediately following
this successful demonstra-
tion, plans were made for a
private party to explore the
regions of cosmic space —
first the Moon, then Venus
or Mars. But my father
was never to see his hopes
fulfilled, for the excitement
was too much for him, and

T T ERE is a charming interplanetarian story, which you
I * won't lay dozen until you have finished with it; a story
of adventure and good science , yet plausible throughout. It
keeps you on the jump from the beginning to end and yon
will be, as we were, sorry that the story was not twice as
long. Incidently, the story contains excellent science in such
a manner, that it is always highly interesting — it never drags,
even for a moment.

he died, at the age of sixty-nine.

That was. two years ago.

H ENRY LLOYD and I stepped into the Space-
lVaif.

The Space-Waif is a good-sized interplanetary flyer,
fifty feet long and twelve feet in diameter for about
forty feet of its length, then it curves inward to a
hemisphere or dome at its forward end. Between the
inner and outer shell is a vacuum space to keep the
inside temperature normal and to keep out the intense
cold of interplanetary space. The projectile is divided

718

Before us were seven new monstrosities— seven feet tall from their small, aristocratic, high-arched feet to
the tops of their great globular heads— and each one clutched a glass rod about two feet long.

719

720

AMAZING STORIES

into several compartments — the observatory, at the for-
ward end, containing telescope and spectroscope; the
plotting and instrument room, immediately below the
dome ; the living room ; and finally the store and engine
room. Each room has two circular windows, opposite
each other, and the dome has a glass-covered slit be-
sides, which is rotatable.

“We’re all set, my boy,” said Lloyd, after he had
shown me the provision-spaces all well filled, the
berths ready, the observatory, plotting room and cabin,
fully furnished ; the armament closets, containing guns,
swords, knives, and ammunition; and the book-shelves
holding ever)' story of interplanetary traveling that he
could get, besides a number of scientific romances.

“When do we go — what time?” I asked.

“To-morrow night, at eight o’clock.”

The next day passed slowly for me; why, I cannot
say, but Lloyd had to arrange a whole lot of business,
including his will.

Besides Lloyd and myself, there were three other
members — two of them, Rosonoff, the Russian, and
Lenhardt, a German, were intimate friends of my
father; while the third, Benson, was an American
mechanic, who had constructed most of the machine,
though we doubted if he knew what it was for. We
decided to take him along in case of engine trouble.

At last the sun set; we hurriedly ate our meal, the
last on our Earth for some time to come — perhaps for-
ever— in tense silence. When we finished, we went
straight to the shed which housed the Space-Waif.

Rosonoff wanted to set sail at once, but Lloyd was
determined to start at exactly eight o’clock. During
the time that remained, he went over the flyer once
more, minutely examining every corner, while Benson
accompanied him. Rosonoff, Lenhardt, and I stood
about, staring with unseeing eyes out of the windows,
or casting nervous glances at the clock on the plotting-
room wall. That clock’s slow, deliberate, unemotional
ticking aroused a senseless hatred against it within me
— a hatred that was to become more intense later on.

Presently the hands crept to ten minutes to eight.
Lloyd called us out of the flyer and we opened the
great doors in the roof, through which the machine
must pass. This only took a few minutes, after which
we descended to the ground and re-entered the space-
ship.

“Does anyone wish to stay behind? If so, speak
now, for I shall start the motors before eight,” said
Lloyd.

No one moved or spoke. The door clicked.

For a moment we all stood in silence, each man
sending up a fervent prayer to the Infinite Wisdom,
and then we looked up, glanced nervously about and
instinctively grasped something to hold on to, as we
saw Lloyd look at the clock and move a lever.

A low hum broke the intense stillness in the room
of the space-car, and then we heard the low rumble
of an engine. Presently the entire motor was in ac-
tion. Lloyd shifted several other levers, and then set
his hand on the one that controlled the intensity of
the electric current passing through the gravity screens.
Slowly he pulled it down, and, just as the clock hands

pointed to the hour of eight, there came a slight scrap-
ing sensation and we slowly rose into the air. Steadily
Henry Lloyd drew back the lever that controlled the
speed of the space-ship, and constantly the speedometer
mounted. At last, at 8:10 P. M., Lloyd, glancing at
the distance-meter, which registered ten miles, drew
back the speed lever more swiftly, till at 8:15, with
the distance dial reading 400 miles, the Space-Waifs
full speed was developed.

I looked at the speedometer and was amazed. The
instrument recorded a speed of 1,000 miles a second!

We all stared out of the window at the marvelous
sight before us. The entire scope of our vision was
covered with round, blazing, blinding orbs of light.
The rays which we see on Earth were gone, the stars
looked smaller and perfectly round, but the intensity
of their light was blinding. Nor were there the com-
paratively few we see under our planet’s atmosphere.
Thousands of suns covered the black vault. So thick
were they, that it seemed as if there were hardly any
space left between them. A moment that blinding
light struck us, then Lloyd pulled down the thin, leaden
rolling shade over the window.

“It didn’t occur to me before,” said Lenhardt, blink-
ing, “but don’t you think we might suffer from the
effects of the Cosmic Ray, discovered a while ago by
Dr. Millikan, and which is supposed to emanate from
the stars?”

“Fortunately,” replied Henry Lloyd, “I thought of
that and prepared for it. The windows are made of
certain crystals, which have been fused under terrific
heat and combined with several oxides, and the whole
allowed to cool, still keeping a transparent condition.
This combination is as effective against the Millikan
Ray as my gravity mirrors are against gravitational
attraction.”

A SUDDEN click and an equally sudden swerving
of the car caused us to look painfully about.
Lloyd looked at his space-compass, one of his latest
inventions, the needle of which, if pointed at any cer-
tain object and adjusted to its distance, would always
point to that object, regardless of how its position
or distance might change.

He leaped to the steering wheel, jerked it halfway
round to his right, and then there was another click!
and the wheel refused to budge further. Rosonoff,
Lenhardt, and I attempted to bring the great gravity
screens back to a point that would steer the Space-Waif
toward the Moon, but in vain. Then the mechanic,
Benson, tried to help us right the wheel by physical
force, but we might as well have tried to push over
the Woolworth Building.

“Benson, you’ll have to fix whatever’s wrong with
this thing,” spoke Lloyd, as he looked at his instru-
ments and star-maps. “We must be heading for Jupi-
ter,” he continued a moment later.

Benson entered the engine room and for an hour
or more did not emerge. When he did, despair was
written on his face.

“The whole shootin’-match is outa order,” he said
simply. “I can’t fix nottin’ as long as she’s movin’.”

THE MOON MEN

721

Lloyd slowly pushed up the speed lever, but the
speedometer still recorded our tremendous pace. Pale
and nervous, he pushed up the starting lever, which
should have shut off the electric current passing through
the gravity reflectors, but still we heard the uninter-
rupted hum of the heavy cables beneath our feet.

In a last desperate effort, he jammed down the lever
that controlled the forward gravity screens, hoping
that their action would check our pace. But no second,
shriller hum came to tell us that the current was pass-
ing through them.

Weakly, Lloyd sank into a chair. He looked up
at me.

“I told you to make your will, but you wouldn’t
listen. Why didn’t you?” he demanded. “You might
have known this would happen!”

“You might have known it, too, and told me to
stay behind,” I retorted.

My answer seemed to remind him that the lives of
our fellow travelers also were in danger, for he said,
“Gentlemen, I am extremely sorry that I induced you
to accompany me on this journey when I might have
guessed that the Space-Waif would prove incapable of
accomplishing the great feats that I foolishly assumed
she could easily do.”

“You do not suppose that it is the engine’s fault,
do you?” said Rosonoff. “Mark my word, Mr. Lloyd,
there’s a traitor on board.”

Everyone started as though a whip had lashed him.

“A traitor 1” cried Lloyd. “But who would want to
wreck the Space-Waif or wish us harm?”

“I’ll take back what I said about the traitor being
on board. But someone tampered with the engines,
perhaps so cleverly that you did not notice it when
you inspected the motor before we left the Earth.”

“I am confident that every man on board is inno-
cent. Each one has always shown himself honest and
trustworthy.”

Silence fell. Rosonoff glanced at the clock and pulled
from his pocket a pencil and some paper. He scrib-
bled something.

“It’s an hour and a half since we have been travel-
ing at full speed,” he said, “and during that time we
have gone 5,400,000 miles!”

“Whew! Don’t stagger me with such numbers —
I’m sick enough already. I’m going to bed,” said
Lenhardt.

That brought us to decide on the same thing — there
was nothing to be gained sitting around getting head-
aches, and so five weary human atoms in the great
universe crept to rest, while their car carried them
ever farther into infinity — perhaps into eternity.

Chapter II

In Another World

M Y slumbers, after a long period of wakefulness,
were broken, and filled with disquieting dreams
— the Space-Waif, the Moon, Lloyd, my will,
death! All these haunted my irregular sleep.

Finally I snapped on my light and looked at my
watch. It was 8:15 A. M. — twelve hours since our

terrible pace had been reached. During my slow dress-
ing I procured a piece of paper and a pencil and com-
puted that during that time we had sped 43,200,000
miles into space.

While I washed, Lloyd and Rosonoff joined me. I
told Lloyd of the distance we had gone during the
night — I say “night,” because I find it more con-
venient, but within the space-ship there was no day
or night — there was only darkness without, and v/e con-
stantly had the lights on within. The only way we
could time our actions was with our watches. He
nodded.

“We are in the orbit of the planet Mars — you know
that its elliptical path carries it from 35,000,000 to
60,000,000 miles from our Earth. The planet itself is
now on the other side of the sun.”

Back in the living room, we found Benson serving
our breakfast, which he had prepared over the electric
heater. But we ate little. The prospect of dying in
the space-flyer, millions of miles from our own Earth,
was not calculated to rouse a ravenous appetite.

The entire day was spent by Lloyd looking at his
space-maps, instruments, and control levers, while Ben-
son was constantly in the engine room. But no change
was effected — steadily we sped on — on — on. At 8:15
P. M., twenty-four hours after our departure, we had
traveled 86,400,000 miles into space.

Thus three weary, leaden-footed days crept slowly
by. Constantly our distance from the Earth increased
—172,800,000 miles— 259,200,000 miles— 345,600,000
miles; no reassuring word from the mechanic; and
Lloyd could only state that we were speeding to certain
death on the molten — or frozen— surface of giant
Jupiter.

Suddenly Lloyd passed to the instrument wall and
I saw him working with the valves that controlled the
air supply within the car. At the same time I be-
came aware that my lungs were aching dully, and that
my companions were breathing irregularly — gaspingly.

“If we use our air supply sparingly, we have enough
air left to keep us alive for about fifteen more hours
— then — well — ” he said. He mused a while at his
instruments.

“We’re approaching Jupiter — well, we’re only 55,-
500,000 miles from his surface. Wonder how we’ll
find it — molten or frozen?”

On and on at our reckless pace plunged the Space-
Waif; hour after hour dragged by — slowly — slowly —
every second an eternity — with the men trying hard,
striving tremendously to retain their holds upon their
minds.

“Good Lord 1” cried Lenhardt. “If I have nothing
to do, I shall go crazy!”

“I agree with you- — -the suspense is maddening!” ex-
claimed Rosonoff in a whisper. I glanced at Lloyd.
His face was rather pale, and his chest rose and fell
heavily ; dark pouches were under his eyes.

A S I sit here and write, I cannot but realize how
pitifully inadequate is my vocabulary, and diction,
in making an attempt to portray our situation on this
damnably unemotional paper. No matter how vivid

722

AMAZING STORIES

your imagination, my dear reader, you can never truly
visualize that scene in the space-car — swaying and
rocking as it fell out of its path when it approached
meteors and asteroids, which shifted it, for Lloyd had
devised a machine which spread radioactive rays about
the space-ship, and which sent it from an approaching
object and brought it back to its original course, after
the obstruction had been passed — we passengers sit-
ting on our chairs — the monotonous, maddening hum
of the electric cables beneath our feet — Benson tamper-
ing in the engine room — Lloyd staring at his charts
like a man in a trance — and that infernal clock on
the wall mercilessly ticking out our doom.

Thus ten hours dragged by — eleven— twelve — thir-
teen — fourteen — . Breathing was becoming difficult
again. Lloyd still stared and calculated at his desk;
Benson was in the engine room, Rosonoff and Lenhardt
were playing chess to keep their minds from slipping,
while I watched them. But their thoughts were not on
the game. I did not notice it then, but now, as I recall
the scene, I saw them make only blunders — a dozen
times each one placed his pieces so that his king could
easily have been checkmated, and each time his op-
ponent overlooked it and made foolish, indecisive
moves.

A half hour went by — Rosonoff and Lenhardt were
lying unconscious over their table, the chessmen
sprawled over the board, the game unfinished. Benson
came in from the engine room.

“I’ve got that there speed thing fixed up, an’ the
front screens, but I still can’t turn her,” he announced.
He cast himself on the lounge and fell into a deep
sleep, from which he would probably never awake.

Lloyd rose and passed unsteadily into the observa-
tory. “One look at Jupiter at close range before
I die,” he said, as I joined him.

He put up the lead shade from the circular window
at the apex of the dome, and together we looked out
upon the most marvelous scene I had ever witnessed
up to that time. The whole window was covered by
a titanic disk, with alternate light and dark stripes,
running vertically.

“Say,” I said, turning to Lloyd, “I thought Jupi-
ter’s stripes ran horizontally. These are vertical.”

“That is merely our position relative to Jupiter.
You are lying on your side, relative to Jupiter or the
Earth. You are standing erect here within the Space-
Waif only because you are almost entirely cut off
from the gravitational force of every other body in
space, and because the car’s center of gravity is be-
neath our feet. You know that there is a bed of heavy
metals beneath us. in order to maintain some degree of
equilibrium. In a little while you will seem to be
dropping down on Jupiter, while now you seem to be
approaching him horizontally. Do you understand what
I mean?”

“I believe so,” I replied, and again looked out of the
window. Jupiter certainly presents an impressive spec-
tacle at one and a half million miles.

I presently became aware that the car was slowly
rotating, and when we had reached a distance of about
one million miles from Jupiter’s surface, the bands

were horizontal, and I now had the impression of
falling down on the planet.

Directly in our path was a blotch of color — green and
blue and white — which I had at first taken for some
part of the planet’s surface, but I now perceived it to
have a clear-cut circular appearance.

I turned toward Lloyd, a question on my lips, and
was horrified to find him lying at my feet, eyes closed.
For a moment I thought he was dead, but then I saw
his chest rise and fall — he had only swooned. I dashed
into the living room and returned with the last glass
of water in the flyer.

I forced it between his lips and a moment later he
opened his eyes.

Suddenly he stared out of the window, and fol-
lowing his gaze, I, too, looked out. A simultaneous
cry of amazement broke from our lips. Before us,
covering the whole window, stretched an enormous
landscape — towering mountains, green verdure, white
snow, blue lakes, ochre deserts !

Lloyd scrambled to his feet and staggered into the
plotting-room. There he pushed up the speed lever and
we lunged against the wall as the car’s progress slack-
ened. A moment later he shut off the current passing
through the rear gravity screens and started the less
powerful one that passed through the smaller forward
screens. The shock-absorber showed its work after a
second; the car’s speed diminished, and finally there
came a slight jar, and the electric current stopped.

Lloyd looked at me and I at him.

“Where are we? On Jupiter?” I asked.

“I don’t know, my boy,” he replied. “But we had
better see if this land has pure atmosphere. Here, shut
off these valves” — he twisted the wheels on the oxygen
tanks — -“Now open this valve.”

He indicated one which opened an intake pipe to
test the atmosphere of a planet, and as I opened it, he
leaned forward, his nostrils to the pipe. I, too, leaned
down, and to my lungs came a breath of cold fresh air.

Then our senses left us, and we sank unconscious to
the floor.

W E must have slept many hours — I do not know
exactly how long, before I awoke. Then I saw
Lloyd move his arm, and Benson rising to his feet
from the lounge. Lloyd opened his eyes and looked
into mine. Then we slowly rose to our feet.

The pure air coming in through the intake pipe rap-
idly revived Lenhardt and Rosonoff. When all were
fully awake, Lloyd told them of the landscape we had
last seen, and of our atmosphere test.

This roused us all thoroughly, and together we
crowded forward to the door of the Space-Waif, eager
to see the world upon which Fate had thrown us.

Lloyd hesitated a moment, then flung open the door.
Eagerly we gazed out — upon a great expanse of blue
water, reaching to a horizon which was remarkably
close. Between the car and the sea a level slope a
hundred yards wide led to the shore.

We tumbled out into this home-like landscape, and
there, as we stopped to look about, another surprise
awaited us. For to our right, a tremendous disk,

THE MOON MEN

723

striped with broad, red bands and whitish-yellow ones,
spread over an enormous part of the heavens — fully
one-fourth of that quarter of the sky, while on our
left shone a beautiful star — the sun — with an apparent
diameter of about one-fifth that of the Earth. The
sky on the side of the star was of the fairest blue,
merging near the gigantic disk until it became a deep
blue-black.

Behind us, where our attention was next drawn, rose
a forest of titanic green fern-like trees — such flora as
must have existed on our own planet during the car-
boniferous period. A hundred feet and more those
huge fronds rose into the air, gracefully swaying in the
breeze — giving to the whole scene the aspect of a weird
dream.

“Where are we?” I asked Lloyd.

He was gazing about him with the light of growing
conviction in his eyes.

“We are on Ganymede — -the largest of Jupiter’s nine
known moons,” he replied, and both Lenhardt and
Rosonoff nodded their agreement.

Ganymede is the third of Jupiter’s satellites, is
3,550 miles in diameter, and revolves about its pri-
mary in 7 days, 3 hours, and 42 minutes, at a distance
of 664,000 miles.

For several seconds we gazed silently about us, then
came an exclamation of surprise from Lenhardt. Fol-
lowing his pointing finger with our eyes, we were
amazed to see, barely a hundred feet away, among
the tall, thick reeds along the shore, a titanic, grotesque
creature — a veritable dragon, it seemed, from some
ancient folk-tale.

The monster measured at least eighty feet in length,
and the highest part of its back was some twenty-five
feet from the ground. Its color was slate-blue, and
its whole skin was a mass of great armor scales. A
row of sharp horns ran along its spine, to taper down
gradually along the massive tail. The head was about
two feet long and one foot wide, and the most hideous
I had ever seen. Besides a powerful beak, the head
was armed with six long horns, three on each side, and
two long, sharp saber-teeth protruded from the upper
jaw. One of these, I noticed, had been broken, no
doubt in some fierce battle.

That fiendish beast regarded us a minute, then it
advanced, its giant feet striking the earth with dull
and even thuds.

“Quick, into the Space-lVaif ! That thing will kill
us !” cried Lloyd.

We needed no second invitation. Barely had Lloyd
spoken the first word than we had plunged headlong
into the space-flyer and quickly slammed the door
behind us.

“What is it?” demanded Rosonoff.

“Some sort of carnivorous dinosaur not native to
our own planet. That is all I can say just now,” said
Lenhardt.

“Anyway,” said Lloyd, “it looks as if we’ll have
much more adventure on this moon of Jupiter, than
wc would have had on our own cold, lifeless satellite.”
■ "I quite agree with you,” I assented, as we waited
to see what that thing outside would do next.

Chapter III.

Captives

T HROUGH our quartz windows we watched the
beast, which Rosonoff had termed Cerataurus-
Ganymedeus-Lenhardtus until a fitter name could
be decided upon, as it lumbered toward the Space-
Waif. Its movements were slow, but the length of its
strides enabled it to make remarkable progress.

It advanced to within a few yards of the Space-
Waif, and regarded the machine with a decidedly bel-
ligerent attitude, lashing its great tail and waving its
hideous head about as though challenging the flyer to
combat. Finding, however, that the Space-Waif did
not reciprocate its warlike intentions, the Cerataurus-
Ganymedus probably decided the shining car to be
some sort of rock, and presently waddled down to the
water, which it entered, and moved to a patch of green
weeds rising from the surface of the sea, a few yards
from the shore.

“Omnivorous, hm-m. I supposed it was purely
carnivorous in its diet,” commented Lenhardt, as the
reptile tore out a mouthful of the water weeds.

Presently Lloyd, who had busied himself at his in-
struments when the creature left the flyer, spoke up.

“The trip from the Earth was made in just 4 days,
15 hours, 10 minutes, and 4 seconds, Earth time. I
have a stop watch here which was put to work when
the machinery began to move, and stopped when we
landed here on Ganymede. These tapes here register
the time it ran.”

“Say, Henry,” said I, “you never really told me
what took place when those gravity screens work. All
you told me was your theory of gravitational attrac-
tion.”

“Well, you see, it is a change in the atomic struc-
ture and electronic revolution of the gravity screens,
plus certain electrical vibrations, which cause the grav-
ity wave to be reflected back upon its source of
emanation.”

“Please explain one more thing, Mr. Lloyd,” said
the Russian. “How is it that we maintained an even
pace throughout the journey? If matter attracts mat-
ter directly proportional to the mass, and inversely
as the square of the distance, then our speed should
have increased the farther we were from the Earth.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lloyd, “but you see, I have an in-
strument which practically locks the pace at any point.
It really decreases the action of the gravity screens in
proportion to the force of the gravity wave exerted
upon us. Do I make myself clear?”

Rosonoff stated he was satisfied, and looked out of
the window.

“I cannot see our Ganymedean acquaintance any
more, so suppose we eat and then explore in search
of good water.”

“Good idea, we may as well,” agreed Lloyd and
Lenhardt.

Cautiously Rosonoff, Lloyd and I once more crept
out of the Space-Waif, this time each man armed with
a rifle, a revolver, a hunting knife, and a belt of
cartridges.

724

AMAZING STORIES

Once outside, we stood in a little knot, casting wary
glances in every direction to see if the Cerataurus-
Ganymedeus or any other form of animal life were
in the immediate vicinity. But nothing moved, and so
we decided to follow the direction of the needle of a
compass Lloyd had taken with him.

Taking out a note-book, Lloyd made a few notations
in it and then said, “Gentlemen, in accordance with the
agreement we made on Earth, I am going to lead this
exploring party, and I look to fidelity from each one of
you until it is proved that I am incapable of assuming
command. In such a case, the leadership will be given
to a person who is able to conduct the expedition. Now
— I will take the lead, Mr. Rosonoff will be second, and
you, Clyde, will bring up the rear.”

He shouldered his rifle and stepped out toward the
forest.

Up till now we had done no real walking; we had
either taken a few faltering steps or some wild leaps,
as when we dived into the space-flyer to escape the
dinosaur. I had experienced the sensation of being
peculiarly light, but my interest in the appearance of
Ganymede had not permitted me to give the matter
much thought. But now, as Henry Lloyd took a reso-
lute step forward, Rosonoff and I were surprised to
see him rise about two feet in the air, and sprawl
upon the ground a yard further on.

Exclamations of astonishment broke from us. Lloyd
sat up, a puzzled look on his face ; but in a moment it
vanished and a rather sheepish grin took its place.

“How silly of me not to have thought of that before !
Gentlemen, I advise you to shuffle your feet along as
you walk, else the lesser gravitation of this planet,
compared to the Earth’s, will play — ah — rather queer
antics with us,” he said as he rose to his feet.

We followed his advice as we began marching again,
and the result was most gratifying. It was just as
though we were walking under normal conditions on
our own beloved Earth.

T HE incident brought another thing to my mind.

“Henry,” said I, “how is it that we feel the
effects of gravitation only when we are on a planet?
Why didn’t we notice any difference in the space-flyer ?
What I mean is — ah — how is it . . . when we were in
the Space-Waif, the gravitational conditions were the
same as on Earth, but the car certainly couldn’t exert
that much gravity on us, could it?”

“I thought of that, too,” he replied, “but I can’t
give you a definite answer. I think it was our great
speed, coupled with some queer freak of relativity, that
permitted us to move about as naturally as on Earth.”
Rosonoff broke in.

“I disagree with you on one point. There are no
freaks in the laws of nature. If a smaller body in space
exerts a greater gravitational force on an object than
a larger one does, it is because the smaller body is
composed chiefly of elements with a greater number
of electrons revolving about the nucleuses of their
atoms, which implies that the atoms are heavier, and
which consequently have a greater attractive force upon
the given object than the larger body, which is not

constituted of such Heavy elements. Isn’t that right?”

“I didn’t mean it just that way,” returned Lloyd.
"I meant that perhaps through some unknown expedi-
ent, our muscular force was decreased, while we were
traveling in the car, practically shut off from the gravi-
tational attraction of every other body in space.

“The fact that we five men could not right the steer-
ing wheel tends to corroborate m> idea. We should
have been able to push the car way out of its path,
when we consider that it weighed almost nothing.”

A few more moments we trudged in silence, then
we came to a spring of clear, cold water. I threw
myself down before it and wanted to take a deep
drink, but Lloyd grasped my shoulder.

“Better not, my boy,” he said. “It might be poison.
We will take a sample back to the car and test it.”
He took down his empty canteen and dipped it into
the spring. Then we returned to the Space-Waif,
where he immediately busied himself in the work of
testing the water, while I sat at a window, looking out
at the blue sea, and the great Jovian disk. Its three
broad red stripes had, even in the brief hour or so
since we had first seen it, changed into five narrower,
coppery bands, though the whitish yellow belts still
retained most of their form and color.

Presently Lloyd came out.

“The fluid is pure water, gentlemen — of precisely
the same chemical constitution as the water on Earth.
I believe we will find the fauna and flora of this land
very much the same as that on Earth, for the simple
reason that its atmospheric and geological conditions
are nearly the same as on our own planet.

“It is our duty to science and to our world to ex-
plore as much as possible of this moon,” he went on,
“and so I suggest that we explore the neighboring
country by sending out two men at a time to refill our
larder, while three of us remain with the Space-Waif
and repair it. Clyde, you and Mr. Rosonoff will go
first. While you are gone, Mr. Lenhardt will prepare
to renew the air supply within our car, and Benson
and I will repair the engines of the Space-Waif, if it
is possible for us to do so.”

Rosonoff slung a heavy rifle over his shoulder,
buckled a cartridge belt with holster and six-shooter
about him, took the compass Lloyd had used, and
stepped out of the Space-Waif. Armed with rifle and
revolver, I followed him.

We struck out along the shore of the sea, traveling
almost due west — toward the great disk of giant Jupi-
ter. For about a mile we encountered no forms of
animal life, then we suddenly emerged upon a sandy,
broken hollow about a half mile square. For a moment
we debated as to the wisdom of continuing across this
area, but as nothing stirred, we decided to keep on.

A CCORDINGLY, we strode down into the sum
bathed valley. About half way across, our course
suddenly rounded a large boulder lying in the hot sand,
and as we were passing by it, we came to an abrupt
halt. Before us were seven new monstrosities — seven
feet tall from their small, aristocratic, high-arched feet
to the tops of their great globular heads — and in his

THE MOON MEN

725

dainty right hand each one clutched a glass rod about
two feet long. For a long minute we faced each other
— these creatures of Ganymede and we Earth-men.
During this period I was enabled to see the creatures
more carefully. Their heads were almost perfectly
round, about two feet in diameter, and perfectly hair-
less. Their features were human — two large, round
eyes, almost white, except for the pupils, but the lids
were very thin and delicate, and there were no eye-
brows or hairs on the lashes. The noses were long and
thin. In each case the mouth was small, the lips full
and very red. The chins were long and pointed. Their
bodies were rather narrow-shouldered and tapered
down to thin waists, narrow hips and long, slender
legs. Altogether they made me think of so many
upright wedges. The color of their skins was an ex-
tremely light tan. As I appraised these beings I had
to wonder how those frail-looking, slender legs could
support the great heads, which alone, I reasoned,
weighed as much as all the rest of the body. Their
apparel was simple, consisting of a soft leather loin
cloth and a number of thongs which supported a long
crystal knife at the left hip, a leather pouch at the
right, and a socket to hold the glass rod each individual
now had in his hand. These latter next focused my
attention. They were about two feet long and about
an inch in diameter, with the forward end nicely
rounded. In the center of each one was a slight bulge
and there I saw what looked like a couple of small
mirrors connected to some fine wires.

“Vacuum tubes,” I correctly inferred.

Of course, you realize that this appraisement did
not take as long as it did for me to write it, or you
to read it. It took but a few seconds for me to note
what I have set down above.

Then one of these strange men spoke. He seemed to
be a sort of leader, as indicated by the fact that he
alone wore a shining talisman about his neck. The
bauble caught my attention. It was circular, about
the size of a silver dollar, and seemed to be of gold.
In the center a red-brown crystal that I took for a
garnet was inset.

Of course, Rosonoff and I had no idea what the
man really said, but from his tone I inferred that he
was asking us who we were and what our business was.

After a moment of painful silence and deliberation,
Rosonoff essayed a reply.

“We — that is — ah — you — we cannot understand,” he
ended lamely.

“You cannot?” asked the creature, in apparent sur-
prise.

At that I nearly fell over.

“You speak English !” I cried. “How do you know
our language?”

A sneer curled the man’s full red lips.

“How can you — ” he started, then his knowledge of
English apparently failed him and he gushed forth in
his strange tongue again, and I discerned a trace of
anger and indignation. Then in a short, sharp tone he
snapped something at his men and they came quickly,
menacingly toward us.

I raised my rifle.

“See here!” I snapped. “What’s the big idea? If
you are aiming to capture us, you’ve got another think
coming. We’re willing to let you alone, and we don’t
intend to stand for any fooling in return. Get that?”

The officer was, to all appearances, too angry to reply.
The soldiers, as I guessed them to be. came steadily
onward, in wrath and menacing.

Quickly I threw my rifle to my shoulder and fired
at the nearest man. I did not aim, but at the report,
he opened his eyes wider, threw up his hands, turned
half-way round and lunged upon his face — stone dead.

The audacity of my act caused the others to come
to an abrupt halt, amazement and incredulity written
large upon their light tan faces. Then, with wild
cries of wrath, they leaped forward. A cry broke from
the leader.

I dropped my rifle, jerked my revolver from its
holster and fired twice in quick succession. Behind
me Rosonoff’s gun also spoke.

Then the leader raised his glass tube, it glinted in
his hand and I reeled. A brief instant things were
blurred and swimming before my eyes — then all was
gone.

I OPENED my eyes. For a moment I could not
grasp what had occurred, but then consciousness
fully reasserted itself and I looked quickly about me.
I was lying on a rude litter of boughs, borne on the
shoulders of four men — not the men who had fought
us in the little sandy valley, but men like myself. I
could see the backs of the heads of the two before me
— they seemed to be built exactly like the heads of
Earth-men, and were covered with thick shocks of
black hair.

The leader of the tan men loomed up beside me.
I could not close my eyes quickly enough to pretend
unconsciousness, so he halted the men and motioned
me to descend.

As my feet touched the ground, I saw that this was
a chain of slaves, for there were about fifty whitg men
of my own build with heavy chains about their waists
and linked to the men before them. Rosonoff, I saw,
was also afoot, and chained like the others. Several
of the slaves carried litters like the one I had been in,
and in three of these I saw the bodies of tan men, one
in each litter. So Rosonoff and I had gotten three of
them, eh? Despite the gravity of our situation, I
managed a little smile.

While I was chained into the train, I became aware
of the fact that some of the white slaves were regard-
ing me with faces that denoted wonder and awe.

I noticed that the men were very handsome, with
regular features, grey eyes and black hair. They were
garbed in vari-colored tunics that fell to the knees and
left the arms bare. There were no weapons among
them, but the empty sockets at their belts showed that
there once had been. I did not need to look at my belt
to see that my revolver was gone.

Again the march was resumed — whither? I en-
deavored to determine our direction by noting the posi-
tions of the stars, and so I looked up to see if I could
find the broad disk of Jupiter. A hasty glance around

726

AMAZING STORIES

showed me that it was behind us, and that we were
marching directly away from it. I wondered how
long we had been unconscious, Rosonoff and I. My
watch was gone when my hand ran over the pocket
in my trousers.

For a day my companion and I did not attempt to
speak to these men, the Moon Men conversing only
among themselves. Several times we saw them address
the large-headed tan men, and each time elicited a
response. But it was easy to see that the tan men con-
sidered the members of the Genus Homo as being
vastly inferior beings, and only spoke to them on the
grounds of common decency.

“Hm,” muttered Rosonoff, who was chained right
behind me, “they have a common language. We shall
have to learn it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said I, “those big pear-heads
could speak English, so why waste a lot of energy
learning a new language, when we can get along just
as well with the old?”

Rosonoff shook his head.

“I cannot conceive of any way they might have
learned it, except perhaps by capturing earthly radio
waves with very powerful receiving sets. It is apparent
that English is not their native tongue, nor is it the
native language of our fellow captives.”

We entered a thick, primeval forest about an hour
later, and marched a long time when the gloom in the
wood deepened, and the Ganymedean night came upon
us. The tan men herded us into a rough circle at the
base of a high, perpendicular cliff wall. We were given
some kind of meat, broiled over a fire in the middle
of the clearing, then six of our captors lay down to
sleep, and two remained on guard. The three dead men
were left in their litters.

The morning after the long, chilly, dark Ganymedean
night, we again resumed the march. Rosonoff and I
began to speak to our fellow prisoners, but, of course,
we could not understand each other.

However, two handsome young fellows took it on
themselves to be our tutors, and being eager students,
we managed in a little while to exchange thoughts.
Signs and actions were our chief methods of inter-
course at first, but by the time we reached the capital
city of the Ja-vas, as our captors were called, we were
able to speak our friends’ — and enemies’ — tongue fairly
well.

I told Thoom, one of our instructors, and to whom
I became much attached, that we were not of his world,
but from the planet Earth, and tried to explain to him
a few of the essentials of astronomy, for though he had
often seen the stars, his knowledge concerning them
was about as high as that of the early Greek and
Roman students on our own Earth.

“That may be, my friend,” he said with a wistful
smile, “but I fear that you are telling me these things
when they will be of no use to me whatever.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Ja-vas — ” replied Thoom, and shrugged his
shoulders.

“You mean they’ll kill us?” I queried, with a rather
creepy sensation along my spine.

Again he shrugged.

“I do not know. All I know is, that whoever falls
into their hands never returns to his people.”

“Deuced cheerful prospect,” I thought to myself,
and at the same time I decided that I, at least, would
not be one of those who never return.

And then, the next day, nine days since our capture,
we came at last to the Ja-vas capital.

Chapter IV
The City of Glass

W E had debouched upon a flat, grassy plain,
from the shadows of a forest, when I first
sighted the shining domes and glistening spires
of Putar, main city of the Ja-vas. Where the forest
stopped began the fields and pastures that fed the city,
the gardens laid out in squares and triangles and circles
that showed they had been very accurately measured.
Between the plots ran broad paths of gleaming white
stone, and along one of these we were conducted to the
wall of the great city. This wall we followed to a gate,
where the captain of our guard spoke to the sentinels,
who ordered the gate opened. The huge portal noise-
lessly sank back some ten feet, then it moved to one
side. We passed within.

Wide avenues of the white rock stretched before us,
while from beautiful green lawns rose the towering
buildings of polished glass, the ornamental figures
thereon dividing the sunlight into all the colors of the
spectrum. As angles and prisms abounded in the orna-
mental effect of the buildings, the whole city seemed
garbed in a shimmering veil of rainbow-hued lumines-
cence.

On the streets were several parties of the tan Ja-vas,
attended by strings of white slaves wearing green tunics.

We were marched to a low-walled courtyard, ad-
mitted within and taken to a subway, where we de-
scended some fifty feet, and then followed it for
about three miles.

This subway was crowded with throngs of Ja-vas
hurrying here and there, while in the center of the
passageway, at a slightly lower level, ran polished rails
of steel, on which metallic, cigar-shaped vehicles swiftly
and noiselessly sped by us.

On either hand the glass walls rose to the arched
roof, broken at intervals by doors and gates, while in
the center of the arched ceiling ran a row of circular
apertures, about thirty feet apart, and each about
three feet in diameter. Some were open and permitted
the light and air from outside to enter; others were
closed, but served as lamps, as the lids were artificially
lighted ; still others were closed and unlighted.

At the end of our three-mile journey, we ascended
to the surface of the ground, to find ourselves in a
small chamber, facing a great, marvelously beautiful
lawn. About five hundred feet away, partly obscured
by tall, green, well-pruned trees, rose a magnificent
structure, with a dome like that of St. Peter’s at Rome.

We were taken toward this edifice, a Ja-vas officer
accompanying our original eight guardians. The three
dead Ja-vas were left at the guard house. It had

THE MOON MEN

727

always been a source of keen wonder to me why no
signs of putrifaction had set in on the bodies during
our long march to Putar, when Ganymede’s days are
seven times the length of the Earth’s. I assumed that
the bodies had been treated with some chemical, to
keep them from decay.

We emerged from the shadow of the trees surround-
ing the magnificent structure, and were taken up a
broad flight of stairs, through a great arched portal
into a long, beautiful hallway. Halfway down it we
turned into a room where some fifty Ja-vas were
doing a lot of writing and pinning metal tags on several
hundred slaves who were chained in trains like ours.

After about twenty minutes, our own chain was
brought before a marble desk and the Ja-vas, in whose
care we were, gave an account of where he had found
his prisoners, their conduct, and so on, while the offi-
cial seated in the throne-like chair made out a detailed
report on paper. Then he picked up the metal tags
lying beside him, noted the heiroglyph on each one on
his papers, and pinned one on each individual.

Presently I came up.

“Your name?” asked the man in the chair.

“Clyde Bachus.”

He made a sinuous mark on the paper and crossed
it twice horizontally. Then he looked up at me.

“An unusual name,” he commented.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed, thinking, not of Ganymedean
nomenclature, but of terrestrial. I often wondered
why my folks hadn’t named me John, or Tom, or some-
thing sensible like that.

The Ja-vas stared at me in silence awhile.

“How old are you?” he demanded next.

“Thirty-two.”

“What!" he shot, jerking his head up so suddenly
I thought it would fly off.

“Thirty-two years,” I replied again, looking at him
in mild surprise.

The officer went white with anger under his tan
skin.

“I am not to be trifled with,” he almost shouted, “I
want a sensible answer!”

“Why — why,” I stammered, “I — I — I’m telling the
truth. I don’t see anything remarkable about my age.
I am thirty-two years old, as God is my witness !”

The Ja-vas regarded me as if he did not know
whether to break my head or accept my word. He
looked long into my face, then his eyes ran down my
body.

Presently he cooled off a little.

“You wear odd clothes,” he stated next.

“I presume they would be to you," I replied.

H E stood in silence a moment, then he called over
the officer of our train, and the two spoke in
low tones for some time. Finally our leader came over,
unchained Rosonoff and me, and motioned us to one
side. We waited till all the remaining slaves of our
train had been registered and checked, then, while some
officers marched them off, we were taken out into the
air and led to a low building. In this we were taken
down a flight of stairs, and finally into a little cell,

where our guard left us, locking the single door be-
hind them.

“Well — ?” said I to Rosonoff.

He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what
they will do next,” he said.

We waited for some time in the little cell— how long
we could not guess, for the Ja-vas had relieved us of
our watches, and, as the room was underground and
was artificially illuminated, there was no way of keep-
ing track of time. Finally, however, two Ja-vas opened
the door and told us to accompany them.

We were again conducted to the gorgeous edifice,
and led along a wide, marvelously decorated hallway
to a great chamber in the center of that massive pile.
We were ushered into this room, which was circular,
about four hundred feet in diameter, and from the
center of the great dome to the floor was about another
four hundred feet. At the farther end was a dais
raised about three feet from the floor, and on it sat a
Ja-vas with a head nearly a yard in diameter. His few
trappings were of braided, flexible metal, which I
judged to be platinum, and were incrusted with gleam-
ing, precious stones.

When Rosonoff and I were halted at the foot of
his throne, we were told to prostrate ourselves upon
our faces, but we made no move to do so.

“Who are these creatures, that they obey not the
commands of the Ja-vas — that they do not pay due
homage to the Chosen One of the Life-Spirit?” de-
manded the Ja-vas on the throne, speaking to the
officer who accompanied us.

The tan man bowed very low.

“O, Great One, I know nothing of these strange
ones, save that they have committed crimes against
the Holy Race that are terrible in the highest degree.

“When I, thy servant, and my ten soldiers, found
them and asked them to surrender, they replied in a
tongue we had not heard before, but which, of course,
we could easily understand. When I replied to them
in their own language, the young one had the audacity
to ask how we could comprehend.

“Seeing that they were not disposed to surrender
without force, I commanded the Ja-vas with me to take
the strangers by force. But as soon as the warriors
moved, this one” — he indicated me — “used a queer
weapon employing the ancient principle of expanding
gases, to hurl a small leaden pellet at my warriors.
The two of them had exploded their weapons four
times, and, as a result, three of the Holy Race fell
victims to the little missiles ere I could bring my ray
to work on them.

“That is what they did at their capture, O Chosen
of the Essence !”

The Ja-vas stepped back with his former low bow,
when another moved up. He was the Register we
had met before.

After also bowing, he spoke:

“O, Mighty One, Voice of the Life-Spirit! I, too,
must tell of these strange ones’ conduct.

“When they were brought to register, I first asked
this young one his name, which he replied was Clyde
Bachus. Next, when I demanded his age, this creature

728

AMAZING STORIES

had the temerity to play upon my gullibility by telling
me he was thirty-two years old ! Nor did he show the
deference due a Ja-vas, for he stood unabashed before
me when he said this, and even called upon the Essence,
whom he named ‘God,’ to testify to the truth of this
absurd impossibility. That he shows such audacity
before the Holy Race, would indicate that he came
from some unexplored part of Nomak, where none of
the Chosen People have as yet penetrated.

A FTER the tan one had retreated, the Chosen One
looked long and hard at Rosonoff and me, but
his face gave no hint of what was passing in his great
brain.

Finally he spoke, addressing me, for I was the more
accused.

“I know that my subjects have informed me cor-
rectly. Is there anything you have to say to explain
your highly unconventional conduct toward the Holy
Ja-vas ?”

“I have. I lay my hostile attitude to the fact that
the Ja-vas interfered with, and menaced my freedom
of action and desire by attempting to capture me. When
I fought them, it was in defense of my rights. As to
this matter of my age, I see nothing about it to cause
anyone to assume a belligerent disposition. I am thirty-
two years old, and in my country all men reach that
age and more, except those who die by accident, design
or disease.”

The Ja-vas on the dais regarded me a while longer.
“What is your country, and where is it?” he wanted
to know next.

“I am a citizen of the United States of America,
Earth,” I replied. “It is a country very far from here.
It is not even on Nomak.”

Nomak, I might remark, is the native name of
Ganymede.

“Oh, I see! Then you are from one of the other
moons that circle the giant home of the Life-Spirit?”

“Yes!” broke in Rosonoff, before I could answer,
and I thought that I detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.
The Chosen One glared at the Russian.

“No one asked your interference,” he said in a cold,
quiet, deadly voice. He turned to me again and asked
if my companion had spoken the truth, and I, realiz-
ing that for some reason Rosonoff wished me to say
so, answered in the affirmative.

For a long time the Ja-vas on the throne regarded
me in silence. At last he spoke.

“I do not believe most of what you have said. You
are from some portion of this planet, and later on I
will find out which part. The rule of the Ja-vas must
be extended to this place. In the meantime, you will
lie treated like the other slaves, and work with them.
I leave it to the Chief of Industries to assign you your
vocations until I am ready to see you again. I will
call for you when I am ready.

“Go !” and he pointed to the great doorway.

The Ja-vas accompanying us motioned us to come
along, and after bowing once more to the Ja-vas ruler,
they led the way back to our little cell.

Chapter V.

The Moon Girl

■ AHAT’S that!” I said, when the guard had left.

I sat down on a rude bench at one end of the

JL room and moodily contemplated our future —
though there seemed little enough to contemplate.

“This is a fine mess we are in,” Rosonoff informed
me. As if I didn’t know that!

We lapsed into silence.

Presently the lock grated, the door swung open, and
our two Ja-vas stepped in.

“Come! You are going to work,” one of them told
us, and we rose to accompany them. If I intended to
escape from this place, I told myself, I couldn’t do it
as long as I remained in that little cell. Apparently
Rosonoff was in the same frame of mind, for, as he
rose, he looked at the Ja-vas with a speculative gleam
in his eyes.

We were taken out into the sunlight, across the great
park into the tall glass building. There we were
checked and registered, and led down a broad flight of
stairs to an underground tunnel, where stood several
trains of slaves, apparently awaiting orders. We were
put in one of these trains, though we were no longer
chained.

A few moments passed, then we were ordered to
march. We followed the tunnel to our right for about
five miles, where we descended a broad spiral runway.
This we followed downward for some distance. I
estimated that we had gone down about three hundred
feet, but as the spiral was about a quarter of a mile in
diameter, and dropped about fifty feet in every cir-
cumference, we had marched some five miles more.

Then we debouched into a great cave of deep scarlet.
I immediately perceived that it was not artificially
illuminated, but that the beautiful red rock that walled
the cavern’s sides shone with a subdued luminescence
which acted as a natural lantern.

As we marched along one wall, I noticed that it was
very smooth and straight, and I correctly inferred that
it had been cut so by the slaves who were now begin-
ning to work.

A string of laborers passed us, on the way out. I
counted a hundred of them, under four Ja-vas guards.
They were transporting blocks of the red stone on low
wagons, on which the rock was strapped, four slaves
pulling each wagon. Twenty-five of these wagons
passed.

Presently a Ja-vas officer came up and addressed
the leader of our company.

“This entav will transport,” I heard him say. “Use
the trailers marked ‘seven.’ You will go to section 7
and work two jens* after which a relief shift will take
over the work. At the beginning of the seventh jen
you will resume your activities.”

Our captain nodded acquiescence, and led us across
the great cavern. At the farther side, which was
about one thousand feet from the entrance, we found
a group of twenty-five empty trailers standing before

♦About 8 hours 22 minutes, Earthly reckoning. A jen is
about 4 hours 11 minutes. — C. B.

THE MOON MEN

729

the red wall, where a hundred men were working on
scaffolds, cutting great blocks from the wall and gently
lowering them down upon thick, soft mats of cloth.
The extreme solicitude that was utilized in the handling
of this scarlet rock indicated that it was very precious
indeed.

We waited until some thirty blocks had been cut and
lowered, then we loaded twenty-five of them upon the
trailers. I noticed that as we loaded a block on the
trailer I was to help pull, the stone was crystal clear.

When all the carts were loaded, we marched toward
the entrance and exit of the cave, passed through, and
began the ascent of the spiral gallery. At its mouth
we entered the main tube leading to the Royal Palace,
and there we found a number of the torpedo-shaped
vehicles waiting on the rails. There were three trains
of them, pointing to the city, with four cars to a string.
In these we placed the red rock, the Ja-vas seated in
the pointed noses of the foremost cars started the
motors, and the trains moved slowly off, then rapidly
gained speed till at last they shot forward at a rate
I could not even guess at with any degree of accuracy.

Then we went back to the cave, reloaded and as-
cended again, to find the torpedo-shaped vehicles wait-
ing for us. We again returned to the cave and made
one more trip up, where we surrendered our trailers
to a new company of slaves awaiting us.

F ROM there we marched along the tunnel leading to
the royal gardens, for about a mile, then turned to
our right, where a great gateway yawned. We were
conducted through this to a broad flight of stairs lead-
ing downward. Fifty feet down was a .corridor, the
stairs continuing down on the opposite side thereof.
At the fifth level, down, we came to another corridor,
and, following this for a short distance, entered a
chamber several hundred feet square, with rows of
blankets stretched on the stone floor, and felt-covered
blocks of wood for pillows. We were all given beds
and told to wait for our rations. In a little while
they arrived — a hundred slaves pushing good-sized
serving tables before them, from which they delivered
to each prisoner an oblong tray filled with food.

I found the food to be both appetizing and satisfying.
After eating, I felt drowsy and comfortable, and
noticed my companions also looked sleepy. I supposed
the Ja-vas had seen to it that some sort of sleeping
potion was put into the food.

“Things aren’t going so bad for us here,” I re-
marked to Rosonoff. “The only thing is we can’t do
just as we please.”

Stretching myself upon my simple bed, I promptly
fell asleep, to awaken refreshed and vigorous some
sixteen hours later, when a Ja-vas guard had blown
on a brass horn; the tone penetrated to one’s brain,
awakening one surely, yet not too suddenly.

We rose and were given our food, which was a
duplicate of our last. Then our train was gathered and
we were marched off toward the spiral tunnel, where
we relieved another company of slaves engaged in
transporting blocks of stone.

As the train filed past us on its way to the lodging

room, one of the slaves touched my sleeve and I
turned to look into the eyes of Thoom. A quick glance
of greeting passed between us, and then he moved
away.

We took the trailers down into the cave and re-
sumed the work of our last shift. This was our work
for several days; then both Rosonoff and I were
changed to different occupations. At the end of one of
our shifts, our Ja-vas leader had been in a weighty
conversation of some kind with another of his race,
which resulted in our captain tapping Rosonoff on the
arm and motioning him to accompany the strange
Ja-vas. That was the last I saw of Rosonoff for some
time.

Another slave was put into his place, and our work
was resumed.

T WO shifts after that, I was joined to a company
of slaves who transported the slaves’ food to their
sleeping quarters, and so I came to the great slaves’
kitchens, where women did the cooking, while males
brought in the raw food, and took the wheeled trays
to the various slaves’ quarters. There I became ac-
quainted with the Moon Girl.

She was one of the cooks on the great oven from
which my serving table was filled. I noticed her the
moment I came to the oven, and was immediately struck
by her exceedingly comely features. She was not
merely pretty, or even beautiful — she was divine! I
had seen many beautiful women on Earth, and had ad-
mired them in a way. But this woman made me
whistle softly and mutter, “Boy, what a peach !” under
my breath.

She looked up at me just then, and I dropped my
gaze, profoundly embarrassed to be caught admiring
her. But I had glimpsed her own eyes in that frac-
tion of a second, and I drew my breath sharply. She
was even more beautiful than I had at first imagined
— she was ethereal.

For a while I thanked my lucky stars that I had
fallen into the hands of the Ja-vas, but I suddenly
realized that she, too, was but a slave of these super-
men. Then I cursed the Ja-vas, cursed their superi-
ority over the other creatures of Ganymede, cursed
the fate that had thrown the Moon Girl into their
power.

For several days we did not speak to each other.
While I had often secretly admired women from a
distance, I was uneasy and bashful whenever in their
close proximity — and the prettier they were, the more
bashful I became. But presently I managed to slip
this girl a quiet smile and short nod of greeting when-
ever I went in to fill my wagon, and was in return
rewarded by a friendly smile that caused me to draw
my breath inward in growing admiration.

As the days passed, I began to speak to her, though
shyly at first. She must have understood my ability
to speak easily with women, for she encouraged me by
leading most of our early conversations. I learned
her name was Navara, that she was of the tribe of
Itark, and that her age was twelve hundred.

"What!” I demanded, as she made this last statement.

730

AMAZING STORIES

She looked at me in wonder.

“How — how — how old are you?” I asked again.

“Twelve hundred days.”

I stared at her in amazement. From one extremity
(for I had thought she meant years the first time) she
had gone to another and equally absurd. I wanted to
blurt out, “You’re crazy!” but I did not. Still, was
this pretty young idiot trying to tell me she was less
than four years old?

She noted my surprised face and regarded me curi-
ously a moment.

"I am not quite two years old,” she stated simply.

“Now I know you’re crazy,” I thought inwardly,
and, taking a last look at that beautiful face looking
sc earnestly into mine, I muttered softly in English,
“What a pity! Too bad, too bad!” and turned sor-
rowfully and silently away.

As I delivered the food trays to the slaves in their
quarters, I often pondered on this conversation, but
for a long time I couldn’t puzzle it out. Navara didn’t
impress me as being mentally deficient, so I was at a
loss for the correct meaning of her statements. Then
suddenly, like a bolt from the blue (as the expression
goes), I had the answer. An exclamation of astonish-
ment burst from my lips at the simplicity of the affair.
What a bonehead I had been ! Then I sat back against
the wall of our quarters and laughed.

“Idiot, lunkhead, fool !” I derided myself amid my
laughter. Of course, that was it! The Ganymedean
day was seven times the length of a terrestrial one, so
Navara was really 8,400 Earthly days old. I procured
a sort of pencil which we waiter-slaves carried, and on
an old report did some, for me, complicated mathe-
matics. The result was that Navara’s terrestrial age
was 23 years, 5 months, and 5 days. This was, of
course, including the 3 hours in seven Earthly days
which the Ganymedean day contains. This bore out
her statement that she was nearly two Jovian years
old — the year of Jupiter being 12 times the length
of our planet’s.

This also accounted for the amazement of the Ja-vas
when I informed them that I was thirty-two years
old. I was figuring along Earthly standards, while
they, naturally, used the Ganymedean way of reckon-
ing. Thirty-two Jovian years equal three hundred
and eighty of ours, or so. The average Ganymedean
man lives to an age of six years. When he is three
years old he is in the prime of life.

So I laughed again and curled up to sleep, with
the knowledge that I owed the Moon Girl an apology
for the uncouth stares I had given her in regard to
this matter.

At the beginning of my next shift, when I loaded
my serving table, I apologized for my unconventional
actions, and told her that in my country we had a
different mode of reckoning, which I had confused
with her system. So we laughed it off. She wanted
to know where my country was, but fearing that she
might consider me crazy if I told her the truth, I said
I came from the North Polar regions of Ganymede.
Apparently she believed me, but I felt like a criminal —
lying thus to Navara.

So the long Ganymedean days passed away, while
the friendship between Navara and me constantly
grew. Since I was separated from my old friends, she
was all I had, and I cherished her, as I had never
cherished anything before, though I did not at the time
realize it.

Then I presently told her the truth about myself,
told her of the wonderful world from which I had
come, told her of my companions, told her of the Space-
Waif and its perilous voyage, told her of my adven-
tures on Nomak.

I told her, too, that some day I would escape from
the Ja-vas, and then I would free her, too, and bring
her back to her people.

And as I told her these things that day, my dream
was even then building up — had already taken shape, in
fact — though neither Navara nor I suspected it.

Chapter VI.

The Escape

T HE escape came sooner than I anticipated. For
a long time I had been waiting for some oppor-
tunity to make my “getaway,” but the unrelax-
ing vigilance of the Ja-vas guards immediately dis-
couraged my every half-hearted attempt to secure
weapons and attack my masters. Then, suddenly,
when I thought least of escaping, that precious thing,
a means to escape, was placed within my grasp, and
I was not slow in taking advantage of the situation.

1 had just returned from the kitchen, where Navara
had fed me; and prior to rolling into my blankets I
had picked up a moldy manuscript that the Ja-vas had
left lying about in case some slave should desire to
read. I had mastered the Ja-vas written language
fairly well, and spoke the tongue with some fluency.

So now as I turned the knob on one side of the
frame, which action turned the paper, I happened to
glance casually out into the corridor. Immediately my
lagging interest was aroused — for there stood Alex-
ander Rosonoff, looking straight at me. When he saw
I recognized him, he put a finger to his mouth and
with his other hand waved me down.

Nonchalantly I tucked the book, if I may so call it,
under my pillow and crept into my blankets, still
keeping one eye cautiously on the Russian. I saw him
glance quickly up and down the gallery, then he pulled
something glittering from his tunic and quietly stepped
into our room. The backs of our two Ja-vas guards-
men were turned toward him when he entered, so they
did not see him level his weapon, which I recognized as
one of the vacuum tubes carried by the Holy Race, at
them. A sudden glint shot from the wires in the glass
tube, and I saw our two guards drop their weapons,
turn partly around, and sink to the floor, dead.

At Rosonoff’s motion, I jumped from my blankets
and bounded toward him, using my Earthly ability
fully for the first time. My single leap carried me
clear across the chamber — a distance of some eighty
feet.

“Take this!” whispered the Russian, thrusting one
of the guards’ tubes into my hand. He showed me how

THE MOON MEN

731

to turn the graduated dial on the handle of the rod to
get the power of the tube to kill, paralyze, or merely
stun a person.

The clatter of the Ja-vas’ weapons had aroused the
slaves, and now they were gathered about us, awe and
terror mingling in their expressions.

Rosonoff addressed them.

“Slaves !” he cried. “Here is your chance for free-
dom! Many of you have slaved in this city for long
times. You have families and loved ones back in
your own tribes, and you would like to return to them.
Come with us, fight with us, take a chance to regain
your liberty ! What say you ?”

A moment of silence, then a young fellow who had
been recently captured, spoke up.

“I am with you ! If we succeed, all well and good, if
we do not succeed, they can do no more than keep us
prisoners. If I were to remain here, what difference
would it be between captivity and death?”

Rosonoff gave him the other tube and explained
how to operate it, then turned to the other captives.

“We three are going,” he announced. “How about
you ?”

They decided to accompany us on the venture, and
so we all set out for the cavern of the red rock, where
Rosonoff intended to release Thoom, should he be
there, and the other prisoners.

When we got to the intersecting passage that led
to the slaves’ kitchens, I left the company, telling the
Russian that I wanted to free a friend of mine.

I arrived safely at the kitchen and looked within.
The female slaves had just finished their work and
were falling into line to be led to their quarters, while
the new shift was preparing for work. I spied Navara
at the head of one column, preparatory to leaving the
room. I decided to wait till they emerged from the
chamber ere I acted, so I stood back against one wall
and waited.

Presently the Ja-vas guard stepped through the por-
tal, and as he did so I raised my tube and pressed the
button. Without a sound the tan man sank lifeless to
the floor.

I bounded to his body and picked up the tube, press-
ing it into Navara’s hand, as she and the other women
came from the room. I whispered to her to say noth-
ing and follow me. Then I lifted the body of the
dead Ja-vas, whose weight was as nothing to my
Earthly muscles, and set off toward the main passage-
way. Finally I saw a dark niche in the wall and I
deposited my burden there. Then I strode beside
Navara, told her of Rosonoff’s attempt to escape and
showed her how to manipulate the vacuum tube.

A T the main corridor, we turned to the right —
toward the cave of the red rock. Occasionally
the torpedo-shaped cars passed us, but these were mov-
ing at such speed that the Ja-vas within them certainly
did not notice that all was not in the regular order.
Presently we began to come upon bodies — dead Ja-vas
lying on the pedestrian’s walks, all stripped of their
weapons.

We bad counted thirteen dead Ja-vas when we

reached the spiral runway, where I was to meet Rosonoff.

There we beheld quite a concourse of slaves, a score
of them armed with the glass tubes of the Holy Race.
Several blocks of red stone lay on the ground, and
about thirty of the torpedo-shaped vehicles waited on
the rails.

The first to greet us were Rosonoff and Thoom. As
the latter stepped forward, Navara gave a little cry of
joy and flung herself into the arms of the Gany-
medean. I stopped and gazed open-mouthed as he
took her in his arms and kissed her a thousand times,
and I admit I was jealous — terribly so. For a minute
an insane hatred of Thoom burned in my heart, but
then I brought myself to my senses. I might have
known she had a sweetheart or a husband. Doubtless
she had had scores of suitors for her hand.

I tried to tell myself that I was glad Thoom had
won her — rather than another, for Thoom was physi-
cally and mentally a splendid specimen of the Genus
Homo. But deep down in my heart I was not glad —

I was miserable. I just began to realize what she
really meant to me.

I turned sorrowfully away — I wanted to lie down
somewhere, alone in my grief, and die — but Navara
suddenly called me. I turned again and walked slowly
and silently to where she stood beside Thoom.

“Clyde,” she cried joyfully as I came up, “this is
my — ”

“We know each other already, dear. Clyde Bachus
and I were in the same slave train when we came to
Putar,” broke in the man, as he grasped my shoulder
in friendly greeting.

“Yes,” assented I.

“Come!” exclaimed Rosonoff, “You three get into
the first car with me !” and led the way to the torpedo-
shaped vehicles. We entered the first one, in which
some six more Ganymedeans were already placed, Ros-
onoff at the instrument board.

He waited till the other cars were filled, then he
started the silent motors and we began to glide off.

“Where did you learn to drive these things?” I
asked him, wondering at his proficiency with Gany-
medean inventions.

“You remember when I was taken away from the
quarry?” he asked in return. I nodded. “Well,” he
continued, “that Ja-vas wanted a driver for his pri-
vate car, and I got the job. I was taught to handle
these cars, learned the communication system employed
in them, you know, for speaking with Ja-vas in the
other cars and so on, and learned all the different railed
tunnels of the city. There are a number of other
things I also learned, as you will presently find out.”

We had now worked up quite a pace, which was
steadily increased till in a minute we shot forward at
a speed of several hundred miles an hour.

“See here, won’t we get wrecked keeping up at this
rate?” I demanded of the Russian.

He was busy working a lot of buttons and it was a
minute ere he spoke. “I’m sending messages to the
switches ahead that a ‘special’ is coming through. Of
course, we can’t turn sharp angles at this speed, but
there’s a big quarter-circle at one place that will steer

732

AMAZING STORIES

us to the right. Then we go up” — lie pulled a couple
of levers and I caught a glimpse of colored lights out-
side the glass windows — “and move along the surface
for a couple of miles.”

Presently we were shooting toward a red light in the
center of the tunnel, miles away yet, and I turned again
to my fellow Earth-man.

“How did that light get there? A minute ago there
was just a blur, as far as I could see.”

“We are past that curve. While we were rounding
it the outer rails were raised by the switchmen. We
didn’t notice that because of our speed.”

Then the red light began to sink, and in another
second we were traveling in a blue-vaulted tunnel with
green walls.

"We’re out in the open,” announced Rosonoff. He
touched a button and pulled some levers and knobs.
Gradually the high hum caused by our speed lowered,
and in twenty minutes it was almost all gone. Rosonoff
touched another button and applied the brake. In
ten minutes we had come to a halt.

We all left the cars and looked about. We were in
a little grove of trees, and here Rosonoff ordered the
rest of the slaves to remain while he, Thoom, and I
attended to some business.

T HE three of us left the glade and moved toward
a low structure standing in the middle of a green
field. Hiding our tubes in our tunics, we entered the
place. A Ja-vas sentry who accosted us was quietly
put to death by the ray, which Rosonoff used from
under the folds of his clothing. Then we were in the
single great room of the building. It was simply
filled with great torpedo-like machines — some about
ten feet long and three feet in diameter, others a hun-
dred feet long and thirty feet in diameter. There were
all sizes of these torpedoes in evidence. A dozen Ja-vas
loitered in the chamber, none of them, however, paying
any attention to us.

At Rosonoff’s whispered “Now 1” we three turned on
our rods and swept the room with their invisible beam.
The Ja-vas soundlessly sank to the floor in death. We
quickly moved forward and relieved the bodies of their
tubes.

"By the way, Mr. Rosonoff, do you know what ray
these tubes employ?” I asked.

“Yes. These are highly developed cathode ray
tubes — about the same thing invented by Dr. Coolidge
a while ago, back on our own planet. Apparently the
Ja-vas have learned to ‘tune’ this beam so that it causes
death to animal life in some way I have not yet deter-
mined. You have doubtless noticed that we are about
two thousand years farther advanced along the scale
of civilization than Thoom, while the Ja-vas are several
thousand years in advance of us.”

When we had collected the tubes, Rosonoff and
Thoom went to the cigar-shaped machines, while I went
back to call the rest of the Moon People.

Arriving again at the structure, we found one of
the big machines lying out on the open plain.

“Who of you are from the tribe of Karnek?” queried
Rosonoff, addressing the slaves.

In response, about two hundred stepped forward.

"Who are of the tribe of Sira?”

All the remaining slaves save three moved into an-
other group. Only Thoom, Navara, and an old man
remained.

“Do any of you know how to operate these?” next
asked the Russian, indicating the great machine.

Two men responded, one was the old man who was
left with Thoom and Navara, the other was a man of
Karnek. Rosonoff took these two and returned into
the building through a great open portal, and pres-
ently a great cigar floated through the gate, several
feet from the ground, to come down a hundred feet
from the structure. Following this was a smaller
flyer that came down beside Thoom and Navara.

Rosonoff stepped out of the larger. “Clyde, you
will go to Itark in the smallest flyer with Thoom and
his — ?” he looked at the Ganymedean inquisitively.

“Sister,” supplied Thoom.

"Sister!” I echoed, my heart giving such a bound of
joy that I thought it would leap from my bosom, “I —
I thought you were mates!”

“Oh dear, no 1” laughed Navara, while Thoom
grinned and then regarded me quizzically.

“Now,” broke in Rosonoff, “we must work fast.
Clyde, get into the machine with your companions. I
will see you in Itark shortly. You — ” he pointed to
the Karnekian, who also knew how to operate these
aircraft — “take your people in the largest machine and
fly to your country. I will leave in the other machine
in a little while.”

He turned and re-entered the structure, while the
rest of us boarded our respective aircraft.

In our machine the old man, Goor by name, took
his seat at the control board, pulled a few levers,
started the silent motor and we gently rose into the
Ganymedean air. Through our glass windows I saw
the Karnek ship also rise and move majestically off to
our right. Presently I saw Rosonoff emerge from the
building, jump into the remaining ship, and then that
also rose and swiftly moved off to the left.

Our own was gathering speed now, and I was glad
it was, for below us I saw a string of the torpedo-
shaped ground trains come to a halt behind the ones
we had just abandoned, and from these pursuers a
hundred Ja-vas leaped. A faint cry of rage came to
our ears, then they dashed into the aircraft structure.
The last one had just disappeared in its entrance, when
a great column of smoke and fire and stone and metal
shot into the air, while the rest of the building crum-
bled and collapsed.

I grinned. Rosonoff had planted a bomb in the
building when he entered it the last time. We were
safe, for the time being, at least.

And now we were shooting along through the air
of Ganymede toward the west and safety.

Chapter VII

My Last Days on Ganymede — Back to Earth

A BOUT eight hundred miles had passed beneath
us when the flyer developed signs of some
■ sort of motor trouble. This constantly became

THE MOON MEN

733

worse, so we decided to land and continue the journey
on foot. Goor knew how to drive a Ja-vas aircraft,
but he knew nothing of the engine’s construction.
And, of course, the rest of us were of no help at all.

Goor brought the flyer to rest in an open field, and
we all disembarked, to continue the remaining two
hundred miles to Itark on foot.

After orientating ourselves, we marched across the
field and entered the dense forest beyond. I had al-
ways wondered how three distinct geological conditions
could exist contemporarily. It seemed that along
Ganymede’s equator lies a strip of country in which
flourish fauna and flora like that on Earth millions of
years ago ; a little farther on either side is the country
of men, like Thoom and Goor ; in Ganymede’s temper-
ate zones is the Ja-vas country, though these have
extended their supremacy over the whole planet; and
what is at the snow-covered poles, no one has ever
discovered — not even the Ja-vas. Perhaps some super-
race lives there, perhaps the poles are only desolate,
lifeless spots on this Jovian moon.

The first catastrophe occurred within a minute after
we entered the forest. Goor, who was in the lead, sud-
denly gave a cry of warning and leaped back, lashing
furiously at something with his tube, which he used
as a club. Pushing Navara into the bushes, Thoom
and I leaped forward, to find Goor lying dead on the
moist ground, while a great black snake uncoiled itself
from around his body. Thoom sent his cathode ray
against it, and it sank down lifeless upon the breast
of its victim. Rolling Goor’s head to one side, we
found on his cheek two long scratches, where the
serpent’s poisonous fangs had buried themselves in his
face.

Somewhat shaken and nervous, Thoom and I cast
aside the snake and dragged Goor’s body to a great
rock. After some strenuous pushing and shoving, we
finally managed to push the rock from its bed, which
was about a foot deep, deposited Goor’s corpse therein
and pushed the rock back again.

Then we called Navara and we moved on again, a
silent, cheerless company.

For three more Ganymedean days we marched on
ere the second calamity befell us. Thoom and I had
alternately hunted food for the party before going to
sleep, and now, on this fourth day, it was Thoom’s
turn.

He took up his cathode ray tube, nodded to Navara
and me, and vanished into the forest.

A half hour passed — an hour, and no sign of Thoom.
Navara and I were getting anxious.

“I’m going to search for him,” I said, and, picking
up my tube, followed into the green maze. For a few
minutes I was able to trace Thoom by his footprints
in the soft loam, but presently this stopped, and I was
baffled. I had taken some pride in my woodcraft
back in Montana, but in this jungle, with its fallen
trees, rocky stretches, and tangled mazes, I might as
well have tried to trail a ghost.

Night came on — I searched for some time, then I
managed to make my way back to the “camp.”

Thoom had not returned, and though we waited here

five days, and I made searches for him every day, we
never saw him again.

Then we resumed the march again, just Navara and
I. Three days passed well, the next we would be in
the main city of the tribe of Itark.

The next day we stepped out again at sunrise, and
for an hour all went well. Then suddenly, as we were
moving across an open glade, a loud hiss broke on our
ears, and a great saurian came upon us from the foliage
on the opposite side of the clearing. It was a Cera-
taurus-Ganymedeus, or as the Ganymedeans say, a
Thordok.

We turned to flee, but ere we had covered half the
distance to the nearest trees, the creature was upon
us. Then the feel of the vacuum tube in my hand
startled me into action. I turned swiftly and pressed
the button. I turned cold with terror; for the tube
refused to send out its death beam, and the dinosaur
came steadily onward.

“Navara! Your tube!” I cried desperately.

She turned with a hopeless look in her eyes. “It’s
broken — it hasn’t worked since yesterday !”

“Then run to the left as fast as you can!” I cried,
and turned to face the Thordok, now no more than a
dozen feet away. I yelled at it and jumped and gesticu-
lated in order to attract its attention to me and away
from the Moon Girl. My efforts succeeded, for its
long neck shot out toward me, and but for a timely
backward jump on my part, that monster would have
had me then. As it was, the end of the great beak
struck my chest, ripping a long, deep gash in it, and
sent me sprawling to the ground a few feet further on.
Again the devilish head shot out, and again by my
Earthly agility was I saved, for I leaped quickly to
one side as the long fangs buried themselves in the
loam.

I had barely leaped to my feet when a cry of dis-
may from Navara broke out, and she rushed toward the
dinosaur. She seized the great, spiked tail as though
she wanted to pull those twenty tons of demoniac fury
from me by force. This seemed to irritate the beast.

The tail swept to one side, dragging the girl’s frail
body with it, then it lashed out like a great whip, and
Navara’s divine form was hurled high into the air,
coming down clear on the one side of the clearing, a
hundred feet from where I stood.

"Navara!" I screamed, and leaped toward the clump
of fern-like trees behind which she had fallen. A
single bound carried me to them, and there I stopped,
aghast with horror. For, there, before me, dropped a
cliff fully five hundred feet to the floor of a rock-
strewn plain that ran down to an azure sea. And
hurtling down toward the plain was a woman’s body,
clad in the green tunic of a Ja-vas slave — Navara!

Once it turned and a faint cry of horror floated up
to me — then —

I groaned and fainted dead away.

I DO not know when I awoke — perhaps I was un-
conscious an entire Ganymedean day, for the sun
and giant Jupiter were in the same positions. For some
time I tried to remember what had happened. Then

734

AMAZING STORIES

my memory reasserted itself — the dinosaur, Navara’s
body tossed to the cliff edge, her fall —

I shuddered and leaned over the cliff edge, then I
sank back, sick with horror. Below me still lay the
lifeless body of the Moon Girl.

For a long time, it seemed to me, I sat disconsolate
and sorrowful on the cliff, my eyes uncomprehendingly
scanning the strangely familiar landscape. Presently
something glittering down in the valley, perhaps a
mile away, caught my attention. It seemed to be a
conical shell of some sort, lying on a narrow ribbon
of green close to the blue sea. I looked more atten-
tively, then the truth flashed through my mind — it was
the Space-Waif.

I rose to my feet. At least, there would be Lloyd,
dear old Lloyd, and Lenhardt, and Benson, to greet
and comfort me. I set out along the cliff edge and
presently found a place to descend to the plain, and
from there I managed to find my way to the sea and
the Space-Waif.

As I approached the flyer, everything seemed curi-

The Sunken World

By Stanton A. Coblentz

HE world of literature is full of Atlantis
stories, but we are certain , that there has
never been a story written with such daring
and originality as “The Sunken World.”

Science is pretty well convinced today, that
there was an Atlantis many thousands of years
ago. Just exactly what became of it, no one
knows. The author, in this story, has approached
the subject from a totally different angle than has
ever been attempted before; and the idea, daring
and impossible as it would seem at first, is not
impossible. Nor is it impossible that progress
and science goes and comes in waves. It may
be that millions of years ago, the world had
reached a much higher culture than we have to-
day. Electricity and radio, and all that goes with
it, may have been well known eons ago. Every sci-
entist knows that practically every invention is
periodically rediscovered independently. It seems
there is nothing new under the sun.

But the big idea behind the author's theme is
the holding of fire sent -day science and progress up
to a certain amount of ridicule, and showing up
our civilization in a sometimes grotesque mirror
which may not alzvays please our vanity or our
appraisal of our so-called present day achieve-
ments.

The author points out that it is one thing to
have pozver in science and inventions, but it is
another thing to use that pozver correctly. He
shozvs dramatically and vividly how it can be
used and hozv it should be used.

From the technical standpoint, this story is tre-
mendous, and while some of our critics will, as
usual, find fa Jilt zvith the hydraulics contained in
this story, the fact remains that they are not at
all impossible.

This story is published in the Summer Edition of
AMAZING STORIES QUARTERLY
now on sale at all newsstands

ously deserted, and even before I opened the door. I
knew the truth — my fellow Earth-men were gone.

Despondently I entered and gazed about the dreary,
cheerless, dark interior of the space-flyer. A bundle of
papers lying on the table might furnish a clue, I
thought, so I picked them up and read them.

The top sheet was a short note addressed:

“To either Clyde Bachus or M. Alexandre Rosonoff :

“Dear friends — we, Erich Ludwig Lenhardt and
Henry Lloyd, have on this 23rd day of June set out to
find you if it is humanly possible to do so. You have
been gone three months now, and we have scoured
the immediate country in fruitless search for you. This
note is left here in the event that you return before
we do. We shall be back in about one month if all
goes well.

Henry Lloyd .”

Beneath this note was a sheet of foolscap and on it

Ten Days To Live

By G. J. Eustace

T/f 'fHEN man tampers with the forces of na-
yy ture, something is always likely to happen,
and most of the time something does hap-
pen. Our nezv author presents an enthralling
story of titanic forces let loose by the cunning
of man, which almost brought the world to an end.

As yet we knozv little more than nothing about
the titanic forces let loose when zve begin to dis-
integrate matter. We know that every particle
of matter contains titanic forces compared to
which the highest explosives are nothing more
than mere toys.

Some day, these forces zvill be let loose unless
conquered by man. If they are not conquered, we
stand a good chance that the zvorld might be
blozvn up, or explode just as certain stars are
exploding right along, probably due to some
atomic forces.

Today, we handle ordinary matter exactly as
savages zvould handle dynamite. The aborigine
will not be harmed by a stick of dynamite. He
can play zvith it , . kick it around, hammer it all
he wants to, and nothing zvill happen. The reason
is that he has no detonator to explode it, no key
to unlock its energy.

The same is true of ordinary matter. The five
cent piece in your pocket, an ordinary pebble, a
glass of zvater, all contain forces which arc titanic
and sufficient to keep the entire machinery of
the world running for weeks at a time. But we
have not yet found the key zvith which to unlock
this energy.

The present story brings this home to us more
vizndly, and all zve can say is that zve sincerely
hope that the liberation of energy zvill never come
about in the manner described so realistically by
this author.

This story Is published In the Summer Edition of
AMAZING STORIES QUARTERLY
now on sale at all newsstands

THE MOON MEN

735

were written the principal events which took place after
Rosonoff and I had left. They read, in short :

On the second of April, our two colleagues, M.
Alexandre Rosonoff, Paris, and Mr. Clyde Bachus,
Haverill, Montana, left our car to procure food for
the company. They have not yet returned.

We know now whom to thank — or curse — for our
presence upon this planet. Mr. Rosonoff was right
when he said there was a traitor on board the Sfiace-
IV aif, and that traitor was the engineer, Benson. Three
Ganymedean days after the disappearance of our two
colleagues, I, Henry Lloyd, was in the forest hunting,
when some one shot at me, but, fortunately for me,
missed. Upon returning to the ship, I found neither
Lenhardt nor Benson present. I knew that whoever
my would-be assassin was, it was some member of the
expedition, for we alone had firearms, and we had
never found any signs of life save of lower orders.
Presently Benson broke through the underbrush and
came up beside me.

“Did you get anything, Mr. Lloyd?” said he.

“No, but I nearly got a bullet,” said I, watching his
face closely.

“What? Did some one shoot at you?” asked he, in
apparent surprise.

“Yes,” said I, “and I can pretty well guess who it
was.”

Of course I wasn’t sure that he had attempted to
shoot me, but I had known Lenhardt long enough to
be fairly sure he was above such an act, so only Ben-
son remained — though he had always seemed to be
honest and trustworthy.

His eyes narrowed and hate blazed from them.

“So you know it was me?” he asked. “Well, I’m
the man who brought us here, too. You sent me up
the road for murder when you was still a lawyer in
Wisconsin, back in ’9S. I got out though, and I’ve
waited a long time for a chance to bump you off. I
thought I’d be able to clean up the bunch of us by
monkeying with the machinery of this thing here, but
it didn’t peel out. But I’m getting you now!’’

He reached for his revolver, but then a shot rang

out and he fell to the floor. Mr. Lenhardt was in
the doorway with his rifle still smoking.

“Close call, Mr. Lloyd,” said he.

We buried Benson a little way in the forest and
then returned to the flyer, which we managed to right
again.

For three months we have waited for Mr. Rosonoff
and Mr. Bachus, but as yet they have not returned.
To-morrow we are going out to find them, and may
God help us in our mission.

Henry Lloyd, Haverill, Mont.

F OR a long time I remained in the space-car, hop-
ing that the next day would bring some sign of
my remaining friends, but as no clue of them appeared,
I took a rifle and set out to find them.

For three long Ganymedean days I searched in vain,
and then, late the last day, when I stood on the top of
a high ridge, I came upon a clue. I was standing on
the ridge, scanning the surrounding country for some
sign of life, when a pinpoint of light struck my eyes.
This glimmering point came from the top of a lone
tree that stood in the center of a fairly large clearing.

My heart jumped. It must be some sort of artificial
reflector, and it must have been a man who placed it
on the tree-top.

As fast as I could, I marched through the tangled
forest till I came to the clearing of the lone tree.
Quickly I clambered up into its branches to the high-
est twigs that supported my weight, and there I found
a mirror — one of the mirrors from the Space-Waif —
suspended from a branch by a string of leather. Tied
to the mirror was a wallet bearing the initials E. L. —
Erich Lenhardt. I opened it and pulled out a piece
of paper, roughly folded, upon which was scrawled :

“Here they come. Lloyd and I have searched
for a month now, for you, Clyde and Rosonoff.
and now, on our homeway, we are being attacked
by a tribe of savages. I doubt whether they will
spare us.

E. Lenhardt.”

What Do You Know?

R EADERS of Amazing Stories have frequently commented upon the fact that there is more actual knowledge
to be gained through reading its pages than from many a textbook. Moreover, most of the stories are
written in a popular vein, making it possible for any one to grasp important facts.

The questions which we give below are all answered on the pages as listed at the end of the questions. Please
see if you can answer the questions without looking for the answer, and see how well you check up on your general

knowledge.

1. How would a radium mine affect the miners? (See
page 688.)

2. What is the wonder city of Australia, renowned
for its beauty? (See page 700.)

3. What do you know about Ganymede and its rela-
tion to the Planet Jupiter? (See page 7 23.)

4. About how long is the year on the Planet Jupiter?
(See page 730.)

5. What are the characteristic features of the vulture’s
eye? (See page 740.)

6. How can an actinic color effect be produced with
infra-red rays? (See page 741.)

7. What approach has been made to the appearance

and movements of amoeba and how was it done?
(See page 748.)

8. Give examples of how matter can be changed in
appearance and be restored. (See page 748.)

9. How long does it take for the body to grow cold
after death? (See page 748.)

10. What effect has oxygen on the blood? (See page
748.)

11. What proportion of the body’s weight does the blood
represent? (See page 749.)

12. Could a high tension transmission line affect a high
tension telephone line running parallel, but twenty
mile's away? (See page 754.)

736

AMAZING STORIES

I groaned. It seemed that only misfortune haunted
me since our landing upon this strange, inhospitable
world.

A search of the surrounding grounds resulted in
my finding a rifle, broken and rusty, with a few dark
stains remaining on the stock. Close by lay a couple
of bronze short swords.

There seemed no hope of my friends’ being alive, so
I turned wearily back to the Space-Waif, which I
reached two days later, and for several more days
waited to see if Rosonoff would come. But he did
not, and so I determined to try to return to Earth.

The next day I looked over the engines, refilled the
oxygen tanks and tried the various control levers of
the machine. Finally I learned these fairly well and
determined to set forth upon the return trip the next
day.

And so, the morning of the next Ganymedean day,
just as the sun rose over the blue sea, I pulled down
the starting lever; again came the slight scraping sen-
sation, and then I rose into the air of Ganymede. At
the height of one hundred miles over the moon’s sur-
face I increased the projectile’s speed more steadily,
and at 600 miles I shot again through space at 1,000
miles a second.

Three desolate days passed, when a sudden thought
struck me. I had lost all track of time while in the
Ja-vas captivity— what if the Earth were now on the
other side of the sun?

But I was fortunate in that respect, for upon mak-
ing some observations through the telescope, I saw the
Earth lying before me, a beautiful crescent of green,
while a smaller yellow crescent shone on one side.

And the next “evening” I came through the Earth’s
atmosphere, to stop a hundred feet above a great,
moonlit ocean. I kept along at this height, moving
eastward, and was overjoyed to find myself presently
floating over a country which I correctly judged to be
America. Ascending to an altitude of ten miles, I
found my way to Haverill, Montana, and located the
ranch. I brought down the space-flyer, but due to
my inefficiency in handling it, completely wrecked one
side of the shed, which formerly housed the machine.
The racket brought out the ranch-hands, who at first
stared at the great ship as though it were some infernal
monster. Then I opened the door, stepped out, and
greeted them with a quiet “Hello, boys !”

It is unnecessary for me to describe the scenes
which immediately followed my emerging from the
Space-Waif. The men simply swarmed over me,
nearly killed me with kindness, pumped my hand till
my whole arm was sore, and demanded what sort of
men were in the Moon.

Presently some one discovered that my companions
were not with me, and wanted to know where the
others were.

“They’re dead, boys,” I told them, whereupon the
company at once became more subdued. I was carried

into the house and put to bed as if I were a
babe, and I gave myself over to a good sleep. In the
days that followed, I told the boys the story as I have
given it here. I learned from them that two years
had elapsed since we five had started out on that
memorable voyage in the Space-Waif. To me it seemed
an eternity.

I realize full well that this narrative will not be
accepted as truth, so I shall give it to the public in
the guise of fiction.

But back here, life has held no charms for me — my
intimate friends are gone, and Navara’s sweet face
haunts my dreams ever since that desolate Ganymedean
day. Sometimes I wonder if I did not do wrong in
going away without absolute proof of her death, but
no — she could not have survived that fall over the
cliff. She is dead, but my mind does not want to accept
this fact — does not want to think that that ethereal
face has returned to the dust from which it came.

But there is still Rosonoff — I have no proof of his
death, so some day I must, I shall, go back to bring
him away, or leave my bones to rest on the same soil
that harbors those of the others.

Three years after my leaving, and in case I do not
return, the world may read this narrative, and form
its own opinions. I doubt if I will ever come back —
I want to die in the land that bore the face of the
Moon Girl.

After-word

“T TERY good, Mr. Bachus,” I said the next mom-
%/ ing, as I handed the manuscript back to my
▼ fellow-guest. “How long have you been in the
story-writing business ?”

First he stared at me in surprise, then a quiet little
smile touched his lips. “I thought you’d believe it first,
but I can’t blame you for not giving the thing any
credulity. I suppose it does seem a little far-fetched.
But, nevertheless, it’s true.”

I decided to humor the poor chap, and so agreed
that the thing was not outside the pale of possibility.
But he told me to visit him sometime and see for
myself.

So, a year later, when I was in the vicinity of his
home town, I paid Bachus a visit, and then he showed
me the Space-Waif itself. Still I was incredulous until
he set forth upon his return trip to Ganymede, which
departure he insisted that I witness.

The last I saw of him, the metal flyer rose vertically
out of the shed (which had two great doors in the
roof, as explained in his manuscript) then slowly as-
sumed a perpendicular position as it steadily mounted.
The ranch-hands and I watched it for some time until
it faded into the gloom of the April twilight.

That was three years ago — he has not come back —
and so I give you his manuscript and let you form
your own opinions as to how much truth there is in
this story.

THE END.

THE PSYCHOPHONIC NURSE

By David H. Keller, M.D.

( Concluded from page 716)

Teeple finally crawled out of bed and sat in the
sunshine. The house was still. One day the nurses
were discharged, and his wife brought him his meals
on a tray. Soon he was able to walk, and just as soon
as he could do so, unobserved by his wife, he visited
the nursery. Black Mammy was gone. The baby, on a
blanket, was playing contentedly on the floor. Teeple
did not disturb her, but went to his wife’s study. Her
desk was free from papers, the typewriter was in its
case and on the table was a copy of Griffith’s book on
“The Care of the Baby.” He was rather puzzled, so
he carried his investigations to the kitchen. His wife
was there with a clean white apron on, beating eggs
for a cake.

She was singing a bye-low-babykin-bye-low song,
and to Teeple came a memory of how she used to
sing that song before they were married. He had not
heard her sing it since. Thinking quickly, he tried
to reason out the absence of the nurses and the Black
Mammy and the servant-girl, and the empty desk and
the closed typewriter, and then it came to him — just
what it all meant; so, rather shyly, he called across
the kitchen:

“Hullo, Mother!”

She looked at him brightly, even though the tears
did glisten in her eyes, as she replied :

“Hullo, Daddy, Dear.”

And that was the end of the Psychophonic Nurse.

THE END.

A New Scientifiction
Story

The

Vanguard of Venus

by Landell Bartlett

This story will not be published in any
magazine but we have arranged to give it
to our readers in attractive book form —
ABSOLUTELY FREE. Turn to page
751 and learn all about this big Free
offer. Remember ! This is the only way
that you will ever be able to read this
remarkable tale.

Me EYE •/ «*VULTUIVE

*j B y Walter Kateley

Author of: “The Fourteenth Earth.”

j ONG before the rest of the surveying party
were awake, Megg and I set out to locate
the new camping ground. The chief diffi-
culty in selecting a survey camp site on the
prairie is in finding a place where water is
available. Here on the flat western plains there were
no streams of running water, no springs and very few
lakes. There was indeed a small lake a few miles to
the south of us; but we had been- told that the water
Was so alkaline that it was not fit for man or beast to
drink.

Old Thibault, who lived at the bottom of the bluffs
where we came up out of the river valley a hundred
and thirty miles back, had told us that a small coulee
led into the lake from the north; and he imagined that
somewhere along this would be the best place for our
camp.

We found the coulee to be only a short depression
in the otherwise level prairie. At the point where we
came upon it, it was only two or three feet below the
surroundings. But upon following it down a couple of
miles, we found that it became deeper and possessed
here and there a trace of a dried-up pond.

We finally chose a place where the sloping sides of
the course were five or six feet high; and where, in
a sharp bend, there was evidence that water had been
standing not many weeks ago.

The place was thickly strewn with bleached buffalo
bones, indicating that this had formerly been a favorite
watering hole for the deni-
zens of the plains.

I was confident that by
sinking a well a few feet at
this point, we would find at
least a temporary supply of
water. And as there were
no indications of alkali in
the near vicinity, we might
reasonably expect it to be
fairly free from that poison.

I knew that digging here
would be rather a slow and
tedious job, because I had

learned from previous experience that in such a place
the soil would be one tangled mass of buffalo bones in
all stages of decay, to a depth of some ten or twelve
feet. I hoped we would not have to go much deeper
than that to come upon the vein we sought.

Having selected this camp site, we repaired to the
slight eminence of a badger mound, and planted a flag
on a pole as a signal for the expedition to come on up.

Although it was still early morning we knew they
would be watching the horizon with field glasses for
the signal. As we finished setting our flag pole, we

noticed a mirage beginning to form in the south-east ;
and very shortly the clear-cut outlines of a town began
to appear.

And we saw, apparently only a couple of miles away,
the unmistakable replica, (albeit inverted), of a town
we had passed through two weeks earlier; according
to our calculations, about three hundred miles away.

Megg had never been on the plains before, and to
him this was incredible.

He could not believe that we could really see a
town so far away.

I assured him that there were instances on record of
people having seen several times that far and I related
the well-known circumstance of seeing ice in the Medi-
terranean Sea.

Captain Rose, of the steamship President Adams,
reported that on a morning in midsummer the pas-
sengers and crew saw a large piece of floating ice,
accompanied by several smaller ones, floating above
the horizon, in the middle of the Mediterranean. These
were so clear that they could see the blue and green
veins in the ice. Yet at that time of the year there
could be no ice nearer than several thousand miles.

It is believed that they saw a reflection of the Arctic
Ocean.

As the sun rose higher, the mirage cleared away ; and
the brown and level prairie land stretched away as far
as the eye could reach, with nothing to relieve the
monotony except our own tents, ten or a dozen miles
away, mere white specks on
■ ■ - '* the boundless expanse* of

light brown, which is the
characteristic color of the
half-bleached grass in mid-
summer on the plains.

The prairie met the sky
in a horizon just as straight
as a chalk-line, forming a
perfect circle at the limit of
vision. Then as the sun
rose higher, we commenced
to see little crinkles in the

AT OT all eyes are alike, as we well know; nor can the
d V human eye be called stick a good optical instrument,
compared to the eyes of some of the wild animals and birds,
and particularly, to those of the wild birds of prey. They
have a vastly keener eyesight and can register things at a
distance impossible for a human being to even glimpse.

However, there is much in optics that we do not under-
stand today. Our nezu author, in this story, brings out a
number of theories, novel and interesting, if not actually
surprising, and his reasoning seems to be founded on solid
scientific grounds.

IVc promise you a pleasant twenty minutes with this story.

horizon ; and presently little
heat waves began to chase each other. They distorted
the horizon line into indefinite little wrinkles, as if
a number of very much attenuated and transparent
worms were hurrying along the hot brim of the world,
and making frantic efforts to go fast enough to avoid
being burnt.

When the plains are blistering hot, and your eyes
follow the heat waves, they all appear to dance with
a sort of demoniac rhythm ; and you catch yourself
thinking with horror that perhaps you are not really
seeing this phenomenon in the distance, but that these

738

Of course, the city was wrong side up, as though it were suspended from the sky, for the image must always be inverted in a mirror.

739

740

AMAZING STORIES

pulsations are taking place in your own brain ; and that
the heat is unbalancing your senses. Then you close
your eyes to see if you can shut it out. The vision
persists a moment and then fades; and you feel
reassured.

We had nothing to do but to hobble our horses so
they could not run away, and sit down and wait for
the others to come up.

W ITH our glasses we could see that they were
breaking camp ; and soon the white blotches gave
place to several dark specks which the glasses resolved
into teams and wagons, attended by several men on
horseback.

And now a cool breeze sprang up, and we lay down
on the half-dead grass to rest. For a while we lay at
full length and gazed at the clear sky.

Presently a large black bird flew majestically over
us, high in the heavens. He appeared to be traveling
in an absolutely straight line. “What kind of a bird
is that?” asked Megg.

“That’s a vulture,” I said. “They live off dead
animals.”

“Yes, I have read about them,” he rejoined. “They
are really quite wonderful birds, although they are
carrion eaters. Naturalists claim that they can locate
a dead animal twenty or thirty miles away. Some say
they can see it. Others say they can smell it. In any
case, it is nothing short of marvelous.”

“Yes,” I said, remembering an extract from my
Natural History. “They have been known to descend
from a height at which they were almost invisible, to
feed upon a dead snake, only a few inches long.”

“I am going to watch this fellow; he acts as if he
were going somewhere,” and Megg took up the binocu-
lars and followed the unwavering flight for several
minutes without further comment. Then he observed :
“He is getting pretty small now. I guess he is going
clear out of sight. Here, let’s see if I can pick him out
with your telescope.”

I handed him my glass, which he limbered out ; after
a minute he announced, “Yes, here he is, still going.
No, he is turning now.”

“He seems to be circling around now,” he continued
after another moment. “He must see something on
the ground. There is another one now. They are both
circling. There, they are both circling. There, they
are going down. Now I see a couple more coming.
Yes, they must have found something.”

He closed the telescope, and fell to meditating.
Finally he looked up, saying, “You can’t make me
believe that fellow didn’t know where he was going
when he passed here. And there is no knowing how
far he had gone before that. I must have followed him
for twenty miles. It isn’t possible that he could see
a dead coyote or badger lying in the grass, twenty miles
away. And yet it’s just as impossible that he could
smell it.”

“Funny thing, isn’t it?”

“When I get back to take my post-graduate course,
I am going to see what the professors have to say
about it.”

We said nothing more on the subject that day. But
during the summer, we saw a great many of the birds ;
and one day Megg succeeded in shooting two of them.

They were of the turkey buzzard family (Thinogry-
hus Aura). We dissected one of the eyes as best we
could with the very meager equipment at hand, and
examined it with a pocket microscope.

We found that this eye conformed in general shape
to that of most large birds’ eyes. That is, it was not
spherical like land animals’ eyes, but distinctly elongated
from front to back, as though a ball were stretched out
to a somewhat ellipsoidal shape. And the crystalline
lens, instead of being fairly thin and doubly convex,
as in ordinary eyes, was nearly spherical. However, the
anterior convexity appeared to be slightly the less
pronounced. The iris, pupil and retina revealed noth-
ing of special interest, but the sclerotic casing of the
eyeball, usually called the white of the eye, instead of
being of fibrous construction, as is usual in most eyes,
consisted largely of bone, and was very firm and rigid.

I afterwards learned that all these peculiarities were
well-known to ornithologists, and that they were to
some extent common to all raptorial birds.

Megg was not very well satisfied with the examina-
tion, and determined to try again under more favorable
circumstances. He thought that better equipment and
a more powerful microscope might bring out details
that we had missed.

Accordingly he cut the other bird’s head off, and
preserved it in a jar of alcohol. And when he went
back to college that fall, he took the head with him.

Several years passed, and I saw nothing of Megg,
although we exchanged a few letters. I knew he had
finished his college work and had become an experi-
menter in an industrial laboratory conducted by a well-
known firm engaged in the manufacture of lenses,
telescopes and other optical equipment.

T HEN one day I received a letter from him, saying
he would like to have me take a trip with him over
the plains. He seemed very anxious to have me go,
and finished by saying:

“I want to show you what it is the vulture sees.”
Of course my curiosity was aroused, and since I was
about to take my annual vacation, I wrote him accept-
ing his invitation and making an appointment to meet
him and arrange for the proposed trip.

According to arrangement, we proceeded to a little
jerkwater station on the edge of the prairie, where we
engaged a pair of saddle horses and a light camping
outfit, sufficient for a three or four days’ journey
across the plains. That evening, at the little frontier
hotel, Megg explained to me what he thought we were
going to see.

“After I went home that fall,” he commenced, “I
kept on thinking about that vulture’s telescopic eye or
nose, whichever it was. And during my college work
I kept an eye open, to see if I could discover anything
that would throw light on the subject. You know I
specialized in physics and chemistry.

“Perhaps I may as well indulge in a little lecture on
light and vision. I am sure you won’t mind even if I

THE EYE OF THE VULTURE

741

repeat some things about which you already know.

“Indeed, I won’t mind.”

“Well, then, as you know, there are certain oscilla-
tions or vibrations in matter which scientists call waves,
for want of a better name. These waves are of differ-
ent lengths or frequency ; and there are certain groups
of them that our senses are able to perceive. There is
one group that are very short, and we are able to
sense them with our eyes, as color. The next group
that we are able to sense are very much longer and
are known as heat waves. These are ether waves.

“But in between these are a multitude of different
lengths that we cannot sense at all with our natural
equipment. Nature has not endowed us with any or-
gans that respond to their vibrations.

“Again, after heat, there is another long series of
waves, this time in the air usually, as far as we are
concerned, that we cannot detect, until finally they be-
come so long that we are able to perceive them as sound.

“The number of the different length of waves is
almost infinite, but Nature picks out a little group here
and another there, saying in effect, ‘Here are these
waves. They are enough to get along with, and when
you need some more, I will give them to you.”

“Of course we don’t know all about these waves,
but we are able to measure them in a way; and we
have been able to invent scientific apparatus that can
sense a great many that were formerly beyond our ken.

“Of the waves we call sound, we have quite definite
measurements. They are very long. In music, we have
given names to a few of the most important ones, and
the human voice is capable of producing them with
great exactness. We speak of them as the scale of
notes. Some notes represent wavelengths that the
voice cannot produce; but we can hear and recognize
and even produce them with musical instruments.

“Naturalists have long suspected that there are short
sound waves beyond the range of our ears, which in-
sects can both hear and produce; though there is no
definite proof that this is the case. Just what Nature
uses all the rest of the infinite number of wavelengths
for, we do not know. Neither do we know -why she
has been so stingy in letting us use them.

“However, we do know that waves of different
lengths do exist, because we have been able to capture
them with, for instance, the X-ray machine and the
radio broadcasting machine.

“Well, it finally occurred to me that if Nature had
been a little more liberal with the insects, in regard to
sound waves, than she had been with us, she might
have been a little more liberal with the vultures in
regard to light waves.

“I reasoned that the vulture’s eyes might have been
fashioned to sense one or two more wavelengths than
we are permitted, thus giving them one or two more
colors.

“In that case, some things that are colorless and so
invisible to us, would have color and be visible to them.
The more I thought of this, the more plausible it
seemed. So I set to work to verify this theory. I took
it for granted that these birds could see the same colors
we see. The longest waves that affect our eyes are the

dark red, .0007621 millimeters ; and the shortest are
the violet, .0003968 mm. The intermediate ones pro-
duce the other colors. But if the bird could see one
more color, it seemed probable that it was one immedi-
ately beyond one or the other end of our spectrum — -
either slightly longer than .0007621, or slightly shorter
than .0003968.

“After much thought, I decided that the short rays
— the ultra-violet — were the most probable, because it
is quite generally known that brilliant sunshine is very
replete with actinic, or ultra-violet rays.

“I read everything I could find pertaining to eyes
and vision; and among other theories, I found one to
the effect that chemical changes take place in the retina
of the eye, creating photographic images, which are
sensed by the optic nerve and transmitted to the brain.

««/* | 'HESE images are obliterated by an electric
A current and the sensitizing chemical is renewed
very often. The rapidity with which the eye can con-
ceive changes in moving pictures seems to indicate that
the change takes place 20 or 30 times in a second.

“There appears to be quite convincing proof that
this photography takes place, in the fact often demon-
strated, that if a frog’s eye is plunged into a solution
of alum immediately after death, an image may be
found, actually fixed on the retina.

“It seemed very probable, then, that there were cer-
tain photographic chemicals in the vulture’s eyes that
were not in ours, and that they were responsive to sun-
rays that were either longer or shorter in wavelength
than those of our visible spectrum.

“Therefore I took up a careful study of photography,
paying particular attention to the effect of light on the
various chemicals.

“Early in this investigation, I was impressed with
the peculiar reactions of various salts of iron when
brought in contact with solar light. One experiment,
recorded by Lord Rayleigh, tends to show that when
a plate treated with ferro-cyanide of potassium and
ferric chloride is exposed to infra-red rays, color
effects are produced.

“Ordinarily, the rays in the infra-red region are in-
capable of showing any color reactions.

“Although, as I say, I suspected that the vultui^’s
enlarged color perception had to do with the other
end of the spectrum, the violet end, still I suspected
that these chemicals might contain the solution of the
secret.

“Accordingly I set to work to make a careful chem-
ical analysis of one of the eyes that I had preserved
in spirits; and to my great satisfaction I found very
distinct traces of these compounds of iron; whereas
tests of other animals’ eyes were noticeably lacking in
ferrous reaction.

“My tests were later verified by an analytical chem-
ist. I felt then that here, at last, was fairly con-
clusive proof that there was at least one color visible to
the bird, that was outside the range of our perceptions.

“Of course, I had no way of judging what the fre-
quency or length of these waves might be ; but since the
waves beyond the violet have such well-known powers

742

AMAZING STORIES

of exciting chemical changes, I felt justified in sticking
to my first guess, Rayleigh’s experiment to the con-
trary notwithstanding, that they were at the ultra-
violet end of the spectrum.

“I was not content to rest here, however. I deter-
mined to try to verify my conclusions, and finally set
to work to alter certain violet rays, if possible, to make
them conform in frequency to the visible violet ones.

"After much unsuccessful effort, I hit upon a plan of
arranging a system of reflectors on a roughly rectangu-
lar form, endeavoring by trial to space them at such a
distance from one another that they would create a
wave interference.

“After much careful manipulation, I was able to
arrive at a spacing that appeared to make a light red
ray seem a little darker, or a violet appear a little
nearer the indigo shade. That is, I was able to step
each color up a very little toward the red end of the
spectrum. I hoped, in this way, to be able to step
some of the ultra-violet rays up among the violet ones,
thus rendering any substance giving off ultra-violet rays
visible.

“To experiment with it, I frequently took this ap-
paratus out into an open field where I could get an
abundance of sunlight ; and I found that it gave to the
vegetation, the soil, and even the blue sky, a slightly
different color.

“One day, as I was peering through the instrument,
I noticed what I took to be a small column of smoke,
ascending from the far end of the field. I thought to
myself, ‘Somebody must be burning rubbish there.’

“But it occurred to me as being rather strange that,
although I had been in the field quite a long time, I had
not noticed anyone working in the vicinity; neither
had I observed the smoke before.

“I took my eye from the instrument, to search for
the person who had made the fire; but I could see no
one. Suddenly it dawned on me that I could not even
see the smoke. I looked through the instrument again,
and could distinctly see the ascending column.

“I now noticed that it was of a distinctly violet
color, and not like any smoke I had ever seen before.
My next thought was that they must be burning some
sort of chemical that was coloring the smoke, or at
least giving off colored fumes. But why should they
be burning it off in an open field like that?

“I decided to go and investigate. I took one last
look through the instrument, to establish the definite
location, and setting down the machine, started off
across the field.

“I had only walked a few paces when the thought
struck me that it was not smoke or fumes from a fire,
but some kind of a vaporization that was not visible to
the naked eye. Feeling that I was on the verge of an
important discovery, I broke into a run, and approached
the spot in breathless haste. And there, in a clump of
small weeds, I came upon a small, dead poodle dog.
The carcass was giving off a very offensive odor.

I DID not linger, but hastened back to my instru-
ment; feeling very jubilant, and convinced that
I had discovered the secret of the vulture’s eye.

“Since that time I have reduced my instrument to a
more compact form. And it is for the purpose of
verifying my faith in its performance that I am making
this trip.

“This is the machine,” he continued, as he took a
bulky instrument out of a suitcase. “I have fitted it
with some powerful telescopic lenses. I hope to-
morrow will be a clear day, so we can test it out.”

The next morning we set out at daybreak, and noon
found us far out on the level plains. After we had
eaten our lunch, we began to watch the sky for vultures.

For a long time we had no success. We were about
decided to give up the vigil and move on into a more
remote region, when we spied a vulture, away to the
west, flying on a line that appeared to be taking him
about a mile to the south of us. We got him under
focus with the binoculars, and followed his flight for
some time after he had passed from the field of vision
of the unaided eye. When we felt that we had the
direction of his flight well established, my companion
set his instrument up on a tripod, and proceeded to
adjust it to focus on that portion of the horizon toward
which the bird was flying.

At length he announced, “There it is. I have it.”
He made one or two more minor adjustments and then
exclaimed, “Come and take a look ! It is plain as day !”

I laid down the glasses, and put my eye to the eye-
piece. At first I could see nothing. Then the view
gradually cleared, and I saw a thin column of what
appeared to be dark smoke, ascending high into the
sky ; and around its top circled two or three vultures.

“I will venture to say this is the first smell you
have ever seen,” observed Megg.

“Yes,” I said, “you certainly have discovered the
secret of the vulture’s eye.”

We decided to find a watering-place, and camp a
couple of days for old-time’s sake, as well as to
further observe the workings of this device, through
the discovery of which we were able to visualize the
odor of a dead animal. I say the odor of a dead ani-
mal, because that was what we naturally supposed we
had just seen. But Megg assured me that other odors
were visible, too.

He related how, a few weeks before our trip, he had
taken a motor trip into the country in the early morn-
ing. He had seen at a distance, through the instru-
ment, what he at first took to be the smoke of a prairie
fire, as it was spread over quite a large area. He was
unable to see it with the naked eye; but since it ap-
peared to be not far from the highway, he resolved to
investigate.

He parked his machine beside the road, planning to
walk across the adjoining fields and make an examina-
tion. But when he opened the. door (he was driving
an enclosed car), he was immediately aware of the
unmistakable odor of guano coming down on the breeze.
Needless to say, he closed his door and drove on. But
by this circumstance he was convinced that his instru-
ment would render visible various other odors. In fact,
he was inclined to believe that it was not the actual
odor, but certain gases given off, carrying the odor,
that we saw.

THE EYE OF THE VULTURE

743

About mid-afternoon, we came to a small spring at
the foot of a little hill. Here we made our camp,
and settled down for a two days’ stay.

An hour or two before sunset, we noticed a vulture
circling low over the prairie, only a short distance
away, and we immediately turned our instrument on
him. We found, as we expected, that he was encircling
a thin column of smoky substance arising from the
ground.

But now I noticed that the column was of a very
beautiful color.

“What color would you call that?” I asked.

“That is a very pronounced violet,” my companion
replied. “It is really the ultra-violet, which ordinarily
is just beyond our range of vision; the instrument is
converting the ultra-violet into violet rays.

“It would be impossible to say what it looks like to
the bird. It is no doubt a color that we have never
seen, and never will see. We wouldn’t know what to
call it, if we did see it. To describe it would be like
trying to describe red, for instance, to a person who
had always been absolutely color-blind. It couldn’t
be done.”

“Well, anyway,” I replied, it is a beautiful color.
It makes me think of some wonderful giant wild-
flower, growing out of the landscape.”

But Megg was lost in contemplation, and did not
answer right away. He was lying on the grass, and
I suspected that he would soon fall asleep. I knew
he was tired.

HORTLY he spoke, albeit somewhat drowsily.

“I have no doubt there are infinite numbers of
such vari-colored blossoms all over the world. The earth
probably is just one vast flower garden for the angels,”
he concluded ; and shortly afterward he was snoring.

I rested awhile, and then made "a little camp-fire. I
then fried some bacon, and prepared a frugal supper.
This ready, I woke Megg, and we ate in the gathering
twilight. Then I took my blanket and turned in, leav-
ing Megg to wash the dishes, consisting mainly of two
tin cups, and the little frying-pan and coffee-pot.

We were up shortly after daylight the next morning;
and we cooked our breakfast in the best of spirits.

The cool crisp atmosphere and the clearness of the
skies in the prairie country, always seems to give one
a feeling of exhilaration and well-being, which unfor-
tunately disappears in the heat of the day.

When we finished our breakfast, Megg looked search-
ingly in the direction of the rising sun. “Do you
know,” he said, “I would give a week’s salary to see
another mirage like the first one we saw that summer.”

“Yes,” I said. “I would give two of them, and call
it cheap at that.”

“Maybe we will see one. This is just the right kind
of a morning. There are no clouds, and yesterday
was a very hot day.

“Well, here’s hoping,” he said, as he took up his
glasses to search the sky for birds.

I busied myself cleaning my gun; I hoped to shoot
a prairie chicken for lunch.

After a few minutes, Megg laid down his glasses

and pointed away to the southeast, remarking, “I
almost believe there is one forming over there now.”
Following his gaze, I saw that it was unmistakably
the beginning of a mirage. There were the hazy and
indistinct colonnades ranging along the horizon, the
bottoms apparently depressing the earth slightly, and
the tops extending a little way above the horizon line.
These columns appeared like long crystals of some
translucent substance, some wide, some narrow ; all
jumbled together, but all standing upright.

Gradually these dissolved, and here and there trees,
houses and smoke stacks took their place, while the
heretofore straight line of the bottom of the mirage
faded out, giving place to the ragged skyline of an
inverted industrial city, with a broad sheet of placid
water in the background.

“Do you know what city this is?” my companion
asked.

“Yes,” I said ; “it must be that stockyard and packing-
house district that we passed last week on the train.”

“It looks almost beautiful now that we are so far
away we cannot smell it,” he said. “Distance lends
enchantment to this view. But doesn’t it look close by ?
It looks as if you could run over there in ten minutes.”

And indeed it was the nearest-appearing and clearest
mirage I have ever seen, and I have spent the better
part of my life in the open country. Even the windows,
roofs and the ladders on the chimneys were clearly
discernible. In the foreground was a low tower, topped
with a weathervane representing a- horse with mane
and tail flying wildly in the wind, as though racing
through the air at top speed. For several minutes we
stood watching the ever-changing scene in awe-struck
silence. I had a feeling that this was one of those rare
occasions when Nature deigns to notice its insignificant
human souls, and in a spirit of condescension draws
aside the curtains and gives us a long to be remembered
glimpse of her treasures.

Of course the city was wrong side up, as though it
were suspended from the sky, for the image must
always be inverted in a mirror.

But when one has gazed fixedly at it for a few
moments, the sense of direction seems to fade, and he
is no longer conscious of the incongruity of the scene,
and all seems natural. The senses seem to readjust
themselves, just as when you see the reflection of the
sky in a pool. If you gaze steadily for a moment, you
forget that you are looking down; you feel as though
you were looking directly at the sky.

I WAS the first to come back to earth, so to speak.

My thoughts reverted to our glasses, and then to
the new instrument.

“Take a look at it through your enchanted visualizer,”
I said.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Megg said, as he hur-
riedly picked it up; and after making a few rapid
adjustments, placed it to his eye.

He gave vent to one drawn-out gasp of astonish-
ment, which sort of trailed off into an expression of
deepest admiration. I waited a moment, expecting
( Continued on page 752)

Oh* living test tube

By Joe Simmons

IVE, four, three hours. Nearer and nearer
the clock in the prison office ticked off the
minutes as the warden nervously chewed
his cigar and the prisoner in the death cell
above paced the floor of his cage for the
seconds that lead to dawn and death. Eternity, scarcely
three hours away.

In a room below, reporters discussed with loved ones
of the murdered man, the possibility of a last minute
reprieve, while over in a corner the condemned man’s
relatives sat silent and tearful. The chaplain talked
soothingly, attempting to quiet the prisoner who had
finished his last meal. The rope had been tested. Out-
side the prison a crowd milled about expectantly.

For weeks public opinion and the press, feeling its
pulse, had buzzed angrily over the coming execution of
this seemingly guilty man. Leonard Giffin, the prisoner,
from his cell steadily maintained his innocence of the
murder of which he had been tried and convicted. Grill-
ing and the third degree had failed — failed to bring the
confession that men of less moral stamina would have
given gladly, if only to get rid of their tormenters for
a time. . Where others would have quailed and shrunk
from planned situations that could not be avoided,
silence, the simple reiteration of innocence, and then
more silence, was all they could force from him.

The use of scopolamine, the inducing of twilight
sleep, where a man is under the influence of drugs and
his lips answer questions that his will tries to refuse to
respond to, had failed to bring the desired confession.
The use of the drug was merely an experiment at that
time.

It was common property
about the State Capitol at
the time of Giffin’s arrest,
that some one was to be
held up as an example, for
the present administration
had plans for reelection and
some brilliant coup must be
a platform byword.

From the time he made

his first simple statement, — — — —
the prisoner had gradually become silent and morose.
Hope had gone, he felt. Slowly but more tightly, the
web of circumstantial evidence was woven to over-
come the prisoner’s alibi. Circumstances over which
he had no control, a clever district attorney, a jury
unconsciously tired of pardons and errors, by which
criminals escaped unscathed the penalties of the laws
of the state; all reacted subconsciously to make more
efficacious the pleadings of the prosecutor to give the
state a verdict. The extreme penalty! The judge,
austere in his majesty, gave his sentence — pronounced

the time-worn admonition and benediction ending with
“and may God have mercy on your soul.”

As court reporter for The Daily Mirror, I covered
the story thus far: the' strangest case of circumstantial
evidence ever reported or investigated by me. Of con-
viction I had been almost certain, but I was shocked
at the infliction of the death penalty. In short, Giffin
was accused and convicted of a cold-blooded murder,
though he claimed he had neither seen nor known the
deceased. Robbery, it was said then, was the supposed
motive. The pockets of the dead man had been rifled.
Giffin claimed he had heard some one cry out as he heard
a shot: on turning the corner, he found the body and
was only attempting to give aid, when the patrolman
saw him bending over the body. There was no re-
volver found near the body, but a gun on Giffin’s person
had been fired one time and its calibre matched the bul-
let which the coroner removed from the brain of the
slain man. The deceased’s effects were found a short
way from the body, where it was supposed they had
been thrown hurriedly by Giffin, when he saw the
patrolman coming on the run.

Why a young business man of known temperate
habits should suddenly become insane enough to at-
tempt robbery was an unsolved mystery. The books of
his firm were in excellent condition and his bank bal-
ance showed a tidy sum. The testimony brought out
at the trial was certainly not enough to warrant giving
the death penalty. Yet the date had been set.

Ted Moore, the district attorney, worried himself a
great deal as to the condemned man’s story and al-
though he had tried the case, set a precedent by asking
for a stay of execution, so
■■ ■ that he might retrace Gif-
fin’s story for himself.
This was not granted by
the Governor. By many it
was considered that Moore
was making a grand stand
play for reelection, because
a petition bearing several

thousand names had been

" presented to the Governor

asking for clemency one week before the date of
execution.

P UBLIC opinion buzzed incessantly. On the streets,
in places of business, in homes, everywhere, there
was talk about the guilt or innocence of Giffin. Three
days before the time set, Moore jerked me into "his
office, as I was making daily rounds for my paper,
handed me a cigar, waved me to a chair and sat down
on his desk in front of me.

“Not for the press, Robert,” he began, “but tell me

r HIS is another story that you had better not read before
going to bed , unless you crave that particular sort of
scientifiction on which the more hardened ones seem to
thrive. The theme that our author uses is by no means
novel, but in this case it has been treated in a new way , and
the science is a great deal better and more elaborate than
the science in similar stories that have appeared before ; nor
will the idea sound so impossible perhaps fifty years hence.

744

. For nearly two hours the head has been asleep, unconscious of what has been going on around it. In conducting our operation and
our hypnotism, I learned much. But a moment now and you shall hear for yourselves.”

745

746

AMAZING STORIES

personally, what do you think of the Giffin case?”

“Well,” I returned, “I covered the case from begin-
ning to end and can see no reason except that Giffin
is the child of circumstances. I hear that Governor
Stafford has refused to even consider clemency.”

“All of which is true, Bob, and we haven’t forgot-
ten the hundred or so pardons he has issued in the last
year. Stays of execution no end, and you have heard
whisperings of bribery on signing pardons yourself.
I am half inclined to believe them true. Strange that
this fellow will not give a stay even for so short a
time as I asked, when he has given admitted criminals
clemency that he knows they did not deserve.”

“Why all the sob stuff, Ted? Is Giffin a personal
friend?”

“Justice, Bob, I feel has been tricked again. Foolish?
Yes, but the unbiased whisperings of conscience cry,
‘Wrong,’ and have cried it since the day of sentence.
I have worked day and night since to get more time,
but to no avail. I have proven to myself that the shell
in Giffin’s gun did not show fresh powder residue,
which means that that cartridge could not have killed
Stewart. My error, Bob, for a young lawyer like
myself is vain and foolish when attempting to make a
name for himself. To such a man every person is
guilty until he is proven innocent. Another thing, the
microscopic examination of the grooves in the bullet
that killed Stewart showed that they did not fit the lands
or ridges in Giffin’s gun. . Lastly, I have proven to my
own satisfaction that the bullet that killed the man
was not of the same make as that which had been fired
in the prisoner’s weapon. Giffin’s plea that he carried
the gun on an empty shell must be correct. Conclusive
evidence, Bob, and yet I have failed to get the Gov-
ernor to grant us a stay of execution. I explained this
to him personally, but he seems uninterested,” Moore
concluded.

“Well,” I spoke slowly, “your additional evidence is
conclusive enough for me.” I extended my hand. “I
am with you. If anything is to be done, call on me.”

“Thanks, old man. Do you know Dr. Hausen, the
scientist ?”

“The amateur criminologist, you mean ?”

“The same.”

“Why yes, and have known him for several years.
Why?”

“Nothing, except that this morning I employed
Hausen to undertake to find the man who is respon-
sible for the murder. Hausen has his methods, you
know. The time is short, but it is the only hope we
have.”

“You mean that you believe the murderer is free
and Giffin had no hand in it?” I asked sharply.

“I do, and hope to prove it before it is too late.
Don’t smile. I am not spending the State’s money for
this attempted proof of innocence. It is my own. I am
so certain, since my ideas have rearranged themselves,
that I am using my own resources to attain an end.

“Hausen started work this morning. He was inter-
ested in the case and had followed it from beginning.
He has asked us to keep in close touch with him. That
is well, for if I am not mistaken, he will give us

something definite to work with shortly. I wanted you
to know, so you could help us if we need you.”

“In what way can I be of service?” I asked.

“Who can tell, Bob? Hausen loves his criminology
and its allied sciences like his life and you may be
certain that if we are called upon to assist him, it will
be in some spectacular manner. The timing and pre-
sentation of scenes that he learned as a trouping actor
have been of great benefit in staging his climaxes. Hau-
sen has not forgotten his stagecraft. He picks his
cases and makes his puppets dance when he pulls the
strings. Be ready when I call.”

The demand of the populace for clemency had be-
come so strong in the next few hours, that The Mirror
sent me to the capital to learn what effect the petition
had had, and how the Governor stood on the question.

“You may say to the public for me,” the Governor
said, looking beyond me, “that no further petitions
will be received in this office and that no pardon or
stay will be granted a man who is, and has undoubtedly
been proven, guilty. This maudlin sentiment of the
public is all rot. This last is not for the papers. Good
evening, gentlemen. I am sorry that my office forbids
me to be at the execution.”

Innocent — innocent — This word seared itself across
my brain as I stood looking at the retreating figure of
the Governor — a man who had signed hundreds of
pardons since he had come into office, who had stirred
up the House of Representatives by their number —
pardons, which seemed to the public undeserved, and
pardons (it was whispered) bought and paid for like
a sack of sugar across the counter. It seemed strange
indeed, as I stood there and watched the door close
behind him.

<< T T AUSEN speaking,” a voice came over the wire

JL 1 in Moore’s office.

“Yes,” Ted answered.

“Can you come right over and bring Bob with you?”

“By all means !” Moore hung up and whirled on
me. “Get your hat,” he said.

In half an hour we came to Hausen’s laboratory.
It was one of those old buildings of red brick that
look older than they are. It was night, shortly after
nine. The night of Giffin’s execution ! Three hours
to go!

Through the door came Hausen’s voice, “I ask you
to stop now and sleep, concentrate on my hand,”
Hausen’s voice went on softly, “sleep, gentle sleep,
is coming to soothe and caress, to soothe and caress,”
the voice died to a monotone and then faded out.

Moore and I looked wonderingly at each other.

The door opened and Hausen stood looking back
into the laboratory before he spoke to us. “How is the
temperature, Hargett?” We did not catch Hargett’s
reply.

“Good evening,” Hausen opened up the conversa-
tion as he drew off a pair of rubber gloves and pitched
them into a basin. “I called you, believing that a
climax was near. Now I know it is. Since our last
meeting three days ago, I have been busy with every
detail of this case, and only one detail might possibly

THE LIVING TEST TUBE

747

have given Giffin the benefit of the doubt ; but it seems
that I have not gathered enough evidence, combined
with your testimony about this gun, to get a stay of
execution. We shall ask for none. Apparently there
is a sinister influence at work in the Governor's mind,
which will prevent his issuing such an order. How-
ever, something has happened to me this evening, that,
if put into a story, would be called impossible. Chance
and a scientific mind to assist the goddess of chance,
have cleared the matter for us.

“Moore, I have a report for you. A death has
occurred in my laboratory this afternoon, through no
fault of either my assistant or myself. It was caused
entirely by the man’s state of mind. I shall make out
a death certificate later and have my witnesses sign it;
but for the present I want you to trust me implicitly.”

“You are an older man than I, Hausen,” Moore
replied, “and your judgment is more mature. Go
ahead as you see fit, but unless something is done soon,
Giffin’s chance for life will be over !”

“We understand each other then,” Hausen spoke
warmly. “Now let me give you my facts. Mike
Farrel,” Hausen went on, “a member of your rogues’
gallery, came into my laboratory late this afternoon.
We — that is, my assistant Dr. Hargett, and myself —
were at dinner in the adjoining room. We came upon
Farrel attempting to rifle the safe. As he attempted
to escape through the window by which he had come,
he fell to the pavement below. Death was instantane-
ous. His neck was broken. The ambulance surgeons
will confirm that, as will Dr. Winters, who lives next
door. I have sealed their lips for the time being, by
saying that I would take care of the body until the
coroner makes Jiis inquest. I desired the body, because
in his pocket I found a short letter that means a great
deal to us. The Governor will be here any minute
now; he believes that Farrel is here, not dead, but
injured and calling for him.”

“The Governor here, to-night?” asked Moore, his
eyes sparkling, “we have a chance for a stay if we get
him here,” he went on. “But,” he looked wonderingly at
Hausen, “how did you get him to say he would come?
Especially to this city and on the night of Giffin’s exe-
cution !”

“I told him over the telephone that Farrel was de-
lirious and was calling him and had entrusted a package
with me for him. You wonder why a Governor comes
at the call of this criminal. So did I until a few hours
ago.”

Brr-brr- A bell on the table rang violently twice.

“The Governor is here now,” Hausen spoke. “That
bell was the signal agreed upon to be given when the
Governor arrived. In the ampitheatre on this floor
an audience of scientists have gathered while we were
talking. I hope you will pardon me for inviting them,
but I know my colleagues will be interested in a demon-
stration I intend to show them. Both of you keep an
eye on the Governor, but don’t let him see you. Get
a seat behind him and watch every move he makes. But
first get word to Giffin that he has a stay. It is not so
yet, but I hope to get one before it is too late. Save
the poor fellow as much torment as possible. Tell the

warden that we will call by eleven fifteen and confirm
it.” With this, Hausen directed us to the phone, and
left us.

T HE Governor, shortly after his arrival, was met
by Hausen, in a room adjoining the amphitheatre
and was told that Farrel had died from the effects of
his injury.

“Did he make a statement before he died?” the
Governor asked.

“No,” Hausen assured him. “Death was instantane-
ous. He did not have time to utter anything, except
to cry out as he fell from the window.”

“Too bad,” commented the Governor, but he smiled
as a look of relief spread over his features, “Farrel
felt that I was his one friend. Pardoned him last
year, you know. Poor fellow ! That just goes to show
that once a criminal always a criminal, doesn't it? You
say he came here to rob your safe? You said some-
thing about a package?”

“Yes,” Hausen spoke curtly, “the package was the
letter you wrote Farrel, demanding some papers of
some kind or other. I found it on his body and thought
it best that you have it. Let’s not beat about the bush,
Governor. You know as well as I know what is in that
safe.” The Governor’s face became tragic.

“How should I know what is in your safe, sir? Do
you — ” the Governor began.

“You know, Governor, that your reputation hinges
on the document reposing in my safe at the present
moment. At least you will agree it could cause you
great embarrassment. But I feel that it would best
serve the interest of the people of this state if you sent
in your resignation instead of having to go to trial.
As for exposing you, rest assured that I shall not do
so myself, as there is not enough evidence to secure a
conviction.”

Relaxation spread over the drawn features of the
Governor as he extended his hand to Hausen. But
Hausen ignored it and started speaking again.

“Sir, since you are here and find that the man you
came to speak with is dead, and, since those papers
the safe holds are of no further use to me, I wonder
if you would thank me for turning them over to you?
All right, you shall have them, but not until I have
finished the scientific experiment waiting for me in the
ampitheatre in the next room — a new discovery that
will probably interest you. Several of my fellow sci-
entists, whom you know, are in the audience and have
been waiting impatiently for me to begin. If you care
to wait until I have finished — ”

Most assuredly the Governor would wait.

We were all there at last. The room seemed stiflingly
hot. Manning, the eminent scientist, and the Gov-
ernor were chatting and smiling. Carson, the chemist,
Bartholomew, the expert on radium and X-rays, Hay-
wood, astronomer, Steward, physiologist, Hausen, sev-
eral other men at the top of their various scientific
branches, whom I did not know personally, and Moore
and myself made up the crowd.

The ampitheatre, a large room built up with tier upon
tier of benches on various levels, led down to a pit

748

AMAZING STORIES

at its center. The pit was bare of apparatus except for
a large table in its center, on which something was
covered with a black velvet cloth. Numerous bottles
and jars surrounded the table all but hidden by the
cloth, while to the side supported by a bracket was a
tangled array of wires on a switchboard, a small gen-
erator, some storage batteries, a series of radio tubes,
and a few rheostats and various freak coils. The tubes
were glowing and a glass pump below the table worked
with slow strokes, drawing in a blue solution one side
of its piston and sending out red on the other.

“Gentlemen, be seated,” Hausen spoke as if direct-
ing a play. “I must beg pardon for the high tempera-
ture of the room, but it is necessary for the success of
the experiment. You have gathered here as my guests
to witness another of those experiments, of which I
am justly proud, and in which I had the capable assist-
ance of Dr. Hargett.”

H AUSEN’S eyes wandered from face to face as
he warmed to his subject. “The experiment we
propose for this evening is one which even a layman
can comprehend. If you will bear with me, my friends,
I shall attempt to explain, in simple language, the
workings of the experiment. For five years Hargett
and myself have been experimenting with shed blood
and its effect on living tissues. For three years we
have kept a dog’s heart alive, although the rest of
the body has long since returned to dust. Five months
ago we decided to delve deeper into those experiments
of which we had just scratched the surface.

“We experimented with rabbits, guinea pigs, and
pigeons at first, then sheep, dogs, monkeys and finally
we have come to the greatest test of all — a human
being. We have named this test “A LIVING TEST
TUBE,” for it is alive and yet to all intents and pur-
poses is about to begin the long road into the land
of decay.”

“It has been the dream of scientists for ages to pro-
duce life. Yet in our theories we find it impossible,
as it is contrary to the fundamental laws of nature and
the universe, to produce life artificially. I’ll grant you
that motions like those made by amoeba have been
noted by the addition of a dye to a mixture of olive
oil, gasoline and water; but we have proven that it is
only the effect of surface tension we have there. We
have no life that feels pain or requires food. Matter
may be neither created nor destroyed. Rather paradox-
ical, you say. Certainly ! When matter is used it only
goes into another form and is used again. The simple
rusting of iron by the action of the elements is one
simple form of this change; there is no waste there.
The change from ice to water to steam is another more
simple example. What is the difference then if we
keep a thing for a while in the original form nature
intended it to have, and keep it so even after death?

“Ancient Egypt preserved her kings in a marvelous
way, so marvelous, in fact, that we are enabled today,
by exploration and microscope, to find out how and
why they died. Yet mummies are mere parchment.

“Through tests we have been able to keep a sheep’s
stomach alive for days after the rest of the body has

been dismembered. A chicken liver has been kept in
our laboratory for a year and has shown that it was
alive by constant growth — so constant, in fact, that it
has had to be trimmed occasionally to keep it normal
in size. It is only right that you look startled and ask
the questions, how and why?

“To begin with, you must remember that the body
is made up of various kinds of cells, of which the
brain cells are the most specialized. All cells con-
stantly burn out and are undergoing repair even in your
own bodies at the present time. The brain cells being
the most specialized are the ones most susceptible to
decay. They are wasting and being replaced constantly
as the being gets older, as he thinks, works, and acts.
Sleep is necessary to restore the worn-out cells.

“It takes such a short time for the brain cells to
start decaying that in twelve minutes after the death
of a human being, they have already begun their jour-
ney into decay and a step toward a different form of
matter has already been made.

“Thus our problem was, after death had been posi-
tively ascertained in the specimen before you, to get
it prepared by doing all the necessary operations within
the limits of twelve minutes. It may seem like lightning
to you to realize that Dr. Hargett and myself prepared
the specimen under the cover there in that length of
time, but we did. Fortunately, we had instruments
laid out for one more experiment on the lower animal
before asking the Governor for the body of some exe-
cuted criminal for the test — provided the criminal
agreed to it.”

The Governor turned slightly pale at this direct men-
tion of the death that was to take place within the
hour. He looked at his watch and then back at Hausen.

Hausen went on, “To forward our test, we have
learned to declot the blood ; a little of the original mix-
ture is unclotted. Three minutes is the normal clotting
time of normal human blood, yet the body does not
grow cold immediately; it takes from six to eight
minutes for the warmth to leave it in a state of
mortis rigor."

“ / T'HE most important thing in the body, next to

-L the brain,” he continued, “is the heart. A glass
pump below the table, you will note, has taken that
vital organ’s place, pushing one way and pulling the
other seventy-two times a minute. That, you know, is
the normal heart beat of man. The blood, as it runs
from the head through those glass tubes there, you will
note, is clarified from its dark bluish color by the addi-
tion of oxygen, which is contained in the tank there.
A small amount is added to it just as the valve in our
pump opens to pump it to the head again. I need not
try to explain what change takes place in this blood
by the addition of this element, except to say that the
carbon dioxide or waste matter is thrown off and new
life given it by the oxygen. Various other waste is
thrown off at the same time, chief among them being
carbonic acid ; but our problem at this time is the food
for the brain.

“In severing the neck from the torso, care was taken
not to injure the lymph glands, for it is from these

THE LIVING TEST TUBE

749

glands that we are obtaining the food for the blood for
the duration of the experiment. Were we to do away
with these glands, in a short time our live tissues would
shrink and die. Lymph, as you have been taught, is
the food of the blood.

“The blood receives, as I have said before, our
greatest consideration, for the blood makes up about
one-thirteenth of the body’s weight. In this case the
body’s weight was one hundred and fifty-two pounds,
so we are using eleven pounds of blood with the addi-
tion of a pound of normal salt solution, which is salt
water of .09 per cent. We were forced to do this as
part of the blood was lost in our dissection and we are
attempting to copy nature. This expedient was not
absolutely necessary, however, for we now have only a
part of the body to supply with blood, where once we
had it all. If we had left the blood for more than
twelve minutes, clotting would have taken place in all
of it and ruined the experiment, as salt water alone
does not act as blood, and cannot carry oxygen to the
tissues, so as to eliminate waste substances. To over-
come this as soon as we started the experiment, hiru-
din, a substance obtained by making an extract from
the glands in the head of the leech, was mixed with this
blood to prevent coagulation. We used peptone once,
but found it not as positive in its action as hirudin.

“The glass heart and tubes leading to and from it
are coated with a thin oil which also tends to prevent
clotting of the blood that flows through them. These
glass containers are heated to 98.5 or normal body tem-
perature. The room seems warm and close. This is
because we have the room heated to body temperature,
which we find is best for these tests. How do we keep
the blood uncontaminated? I agree that the blood is a
wonderful medium for bacteria, but we have accom-
plished the prevention of this multiplication of bacterial
life in this test by a relatively simple device — a device
which we hope can be used to purify the blood of
patients suffering from certain diseases. But I will
discuss this process of sterilizing and purifying the
blood at some future time, as it would take too long
here.

“You wonder, I see by your faces, how long we will
maintain life. Only so long as the blood is capable of
utilizing oxygen, and only so long as our electrical
‘nerves’ continue to throw out their stimulations.

“These ‘nerves,’ made of fine platinum wire, are con-
nected from our machine on the left here to the endings
of the real nerves in the head. The current which
passes through the nerves is almost infinitesimal, yet it
is controlled simply and positively by the series of
step-down transformers and even goes lower after it
has passed through the vacuum tubes here. Its flow
is regulated by the rheostats. The important point here
is that we are using a very small amount of current
on a wavelength higher than was thought possible. All
nerves have an electrical significance as impulses run
their length carrying and dispatching messages from
the body to the brain and vice versa. They contain
in life a minute amount of current ; although until now,
the gold leaf and other tests would not prove it. Yet
the existence of body auras have been claimed by some ;

perhaps some of you have tried experiments to find out
their nature!

“I have tried to describe to you the workings of the
automaton,” Hausen went on. “They constitute an
experiment never before attempted by science for any
purpose, let alone for the purpose I have in mind.

“T TNDER this small cover we have the head of a

U man who was killed this afternoon by a fall from
a window of this laboratory. That it was an accident
I can prove. I can also give positive proof that he
was dead after the fall. You have my word, the word
of Dr. Hargett, of the ambulance doctor, and of another
doctor whom you all know and who is here this eve-
ning. Dr. Winters, will you give your opinion?”

“I will, sir,” Dr. Winters spoke up. “The man
was quite dead.”

“Then,” said Hausen, “it only remained to get per-
mission to perform a post mortem examination, which
we did — with additions. The law requires an exami-
nation of this kind on executed criminals, why not on
those criminals accidentally killed?

“I can now safely let you see the specimen,” Hausen
said as he gently drew back the cover and revealed the
head of Mike Farrel ! The head stood upright on the
table. The neck came through a hole in its top and
the back of the head rested in a padding of bandages.
The eyes were closed, but there was no pallor on the
face. The cheeks were flushed red as in life. The
glass heart and generator worked steadily on. My own
heart bounded away with itself and the room seemed
more suffocating than ever.

The Governor was glued to his chair, his eyes star-
ing from their sockets. He was struck dumb. Ter-
rified. The men of science looked wonderingly at
Hausen and then honored him with applause.

“Good God, Bob, what’s Hausen up to now ?” Moore
grasped my arm.

“I don’t know,” I said, still looking at the head.

“I have saved the most important thing for the last,
gentlemen,” Hausen broke the silence after the ap-
plause had died down, and he looked straight into the
Governor’s eyes. “By the addition of a bellows attached
to the bronchial tubes accentuated by a motor, a capacity
of air is forced against the glottis. With this device,
which is so controlled that it holds or gives up the air
at an electrical impulse from the brain, our head
speaks!”

The Governor had not gained control of himself. He
sat silent, terrified.

“Have you ever seen hypnotism, Governor?” Hausen
directed his question pointedly.

The Governor answered, “Yes,” by nodding his head
violently.

“Well,” Hausen went on, “the subject is under an
hypnotic spell. I have explained how sleep restores the
burnt-out brain cells and how badly it is needed for
tissue repair. For nearly two hours the head has been
asleep, unconscious of what has been going on around
it. In conducting our operation and our hypnotism, I
learned much. But a moment now and you shall hear
for yourself,” and he waved his hand with gentle mo-

750

AMAZING STORIES

tions before the closed eyes of the head. The eyes
opened and looked about the room as if not sure which
way to focus themselves. Suddenly they were drawn
toward the Governor, who was white and shaken. His
eyes were staring front their sockets and it seemed as
if he must die of fright.

«‘T? VENING, Governor,” the voice from the grave
XI/ spoke. Its words were not very clear but intel-
ligible. “Excuse my appearance this way to-night, but
it was an accident that I fell out that damned winder.
I don’t remember nuthin’ more till Hausen fixed me
up this way. What time is it now ? What ! Only an
hour till Giffin goes to the gallows, eh? Well, Gov-
ernor, me and you is goin’ to make that hour funny,
ain't we, Governor? It wasn’t no accident that I come
here late today to git some papers you knew I had lost
and Hausen had got hold of. Them very papers I had
got off Stewart’s body after I shot him. But tell 'em,
Gov’, tell ’em why he was shot. Tell ’em who it was
who sent me out to kill Stewart. You, Gov’, it was.
Because he had proof enough in them papers he had on
him, with what he knew about you and could prove, to
send you to the penitentiary yourself and that would
have ruined his Excellency’s good little reputation.”
The head’s eyes roved to the audience. “He let me
out of the pen and give me a parole and promised me
a pardon if I would get the job done. I killed Stewart
and then got to thinking, that if I gave the Governor
them papers, he would have me under his thumb and
get me hanged if he wanted to. I know him and so I
kept ’em myself. Oh, he threatened, but he knew I
had the goods on him, and if he squealed he would git
himself in as bad as me. So we wus fifty-fifty. He
had the pardon and I had the papers. At least I
thought I had ’em but I lost ’em and Hausen got ’em —
God knows where. I come here to-night to get ’em

out of his safe, for I knew I was lost without ’em.
The Governor wrote me a letter demandin’ ’em and
that was the letter Hausen told me he found in my
pocket. He come in just as I was about to git the can
opened and spoiled the works.”

The eyes turned to the Governor again. “You, Gov-
ernor, is the murderer, not me. I just pulled the trig-
ger. You planned it. Stewart knew too much about
you and your pardon-and-run system. Cower, damn
you, as you made me cower when you had me under
your thumb. You can’t touch me now. But you will
kill Giffin if you don’t git a move on !”

The Governor could not say a word now. His mind
was gone. He could hear but not speak.

“Sign this !” Hausen shoved a pen into the Gov-
ernor’s hand and he signed the pardon with trembling
fingers.

The Governor moved slowly toward the balcony. A
broken old man now. Moore started up to stop him,
but Hausen shook his head. “There is no means of
escape from there,” he said quietly, as the Governor
passed out the door.

Parrel’s eyes followed him.

“Hausen,” Moore said. “Is this a trick? How can
you make a jury believe that this dead half alive head
knows what it is talking about? How do we know
they will accept such a fairy tale? No sane jury will
believe such a thing as this could possibly hap — -”
Boom ! A shot echoed from the balcony. The audience
rose to its feet as a man. Someone rushed quickly out
on the balcony and then stopped in the doorway
abruptly, bewildered.

“The Governor — ” someone gasped, “the Governor
has killed himself !”

“There is your proof,” Parrel’s head replied. And
in the confusion that followed, Hausen threw the nerve
switch that broke the contact.

THE END.

tSmNMM&ttRlI

HHS-S-U S S I O N S

l^lVtl I iii fi'IHHilB ) K

Editor, Amazing Stories:

J have just finished reading the April number,
and noticed one thing which may be said of all
your publications of Amazing Stories, and that is
the well-balanced selection of stories in each number.
A great many of your readers, as I noticed in
“Discussions” column, praise according to their
individual tastes. Personally, I like all the stories,
and also like the way in which the various stories
are assembled under one cover.

Like many of your readers, I also have read
your publication since its first appearance on the
book-stalls, and have never missed a copy. Your
methods of making the magazine bigger and better
are very acceptable.

There are various degrees of excellence in what
you give us, but for some reason, I cannot state,
“The Green Splotches” and “The Thought Ma-
chine” have interested me unusually. I have read
each of them at least six times. Another type of

SOME PUZZLING QUESTIONS

story which I favor is one in which the reader is
left in some doubt at the end of the narrative, and
may find a solution in his own mind to his own
satisfaction. An. example of this type of story is,
I believe, “The Color Out of Space” and “The
People of the Pit,” lioth excellent.

Regarding illustrations in your magazine, I favor
one full page picture to each story, taken from an
interesting situation. In the serials, one picture
to each installment.

Now as to the stories with gruesome plots, which
many of your readers also seem to be in doubt
about; by all means let us have them if they are
worthy of perusal, and not a cheap endeavor to
capture interest.

There are several questions which I would like to
ask you, problems which I and my business associates
have stumbled against in our luncheon discussions.
Here they are: Do light rays, sound waves and
various energy rays have to overcome inertia?

Has the theory of light diverging from the
straight path been accepted by all International
Scientists ?

Is there serious consideration of the theory that
time is a curved entity and if so could you give
me an explanation of this theory?

Suppose I construct a rigid square frame of
steel or some other suitable material, and in each
corner I place a first quality mirror facing the
one diagonally opposite. Now if light travels at
approximately 186,000 miles per second for an
indefinite period, as we are taught, then I should
get light reflected for an indefinite period if a light
is introduced into that frame. On a flat reflecting
surface, we are also told, the angle of incidence
of light is always equal to the angle of reflection.

There must be a fallacy to my argument, but I
don’t know where. Could you tell me?

Another question: could a high tension trans-
(.Continued on page 754)

AMAZING STORIES

751

TO OUR ^READERS

“/ would greatly appreciate it
if every reader of AMAZING
STORIES would read this per-
sonal message.”

Editor “ Amazing Stories’

I WISH to present you with a new and
unpublished scientifiction story of the
interplanetarian type, entitled “The Van-
guard of Venus,” by Landell Bartlett.
This is a full-length story, such as we
usually publish in AMAZING STORIES,
but this particular story will never be pub-
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WHY DO WE DO THIS ?

It is necessary, for circulation purposes,
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quently we do not sell more than
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dealers for. In order to cut down
this waste, we must know just where
our readers are located, and supply
the newsstands with only those
copies where we know a demand
exists. This will save us thousands
of dollars a year, and in turn, we can
well afford to present you with a
free copy of "The Vanguard of
Venus."

This story, by the way, I assure
you, is one of the best I have ever
read. It is a real interplanetarian
scientifiction story, and is different
from most others of this kind.

I therefore ask you to sign the
coupon printed below to take ad-
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THE EYE OF THE VULTURE

By Walter Kateley

( Concluded from page 743)

some explanation. But he said nothing more; he only
stood gazing like one hypnotized, without moving a
muscle.

Finally I said, “Pardon me, but do you see some-
thing?” Slowly and with apparent reluctance, he re-
moved the instrument from his eyes, and handed it
to me.

I directed it toward the mirage, and applied my eye
to the lens.

Whether I gave any exclamation or not, I do not
know ; but I shall never forget the beauty of the sight
that met my gaze at that moment.

There was the city, just where it had appeared a
moment before ; but rising from a thousand places was
a beautiful violet exhalation. In some places it rolled
in billowing volumes ; in others, it rose in thin columns ;
as smoke rises from a small chimney on a still evening.
Again it was only a thin vapor, which did not conceal,
but mantled all with its veil of soft color.

Gathering from all its various sources, it united in a
vast and transcendentally beautiful cloud, which drifted
away over the lake, illuminated and glorified by the
light of the rising sun.

The golden rays of our great luminary, mingling
with the deep violet of the exhalation, resulted in a
multitude of the most wonderful hues and colors.

Here and there a light breeze caught up a colorful
wisp, and resolved it into a compact and fanciful fig-
ure; or else scattered it, or wove it into beautiful
lace-like patterns that dissolved almost as soon as they

had formed. It was indeed a marvelously glorious
scene.

And now my eye fell on the weather-vane horse in
a seemingly wild dash up out of a beautiful billowing
cloud. I was so enchanted with the celestial beauty
of the scene, that I almost expected to see him drag
Elisha in his fiery chariot out of this Elysian turmoil
and away to the skies. Then a brisk breeze caught
the cloud, causing it to envelop the weather-vane, and
then tore it into long wisps or tongues, which, illumi-
nated by the level rays of the sun, looked like half-
subdued flames. One could almost fancy the city was
on fire.

But time was precious, for a mirage often lasts only
a few moments, so after a short survey, I restored the
instrument to Megg, who took it eagerly.

But even as he raised it to his eyes, I perceived that
the scene was fading.

Almost as rapidly as a breeze blows a wisp of mist
from a mountain-side, it was gone.

With one accord we sat down heavily on the grass.
We were fatigued by the stress and excitement of the
extraordinary experience. We gazed blankly at the
encircling vastness. There seemed to be nothing to say.

At length Megg pulled himself together ; and his face
lit up with a smile.

“Think what a joy my ‘Smelloscope’ would have been
to Nero !” he said. “He could have experienced all
the thrills of a burning city every day, while he re-
tained them intact.”

THE END.

READERS’ VOTE OF PREFERENCE

Stories I Like:

(2) - - ►

(3) #

Stories I Do Not Like:

(2) -

Do you want the questionnaire to continue? — '.

Do you like the illustrations as we have them now?

Do you favor more illustrations than we have now?

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Address — ..

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or copy it and mail it to AMAZING STORIES, 230 Fifth Avenue, New York City.

AMAZING STORIES

753

SECOND ISSUE JUST OUT

In This New Issue ** ~
Complete Instructions For
Building a Television Receiver

There can be no question but that Television is here to stay. Like radio, its sudden
popularity came practically overnight. It has taken a decided grip on public opinion and
bids fair to sweep the entire country in a never-before-witnessed blaze of enthusiasm.

So. fans! Dig out the old soldering iron, the bus bar and the rest of your paraphernalia
and get to work on the latest hobby. Build yourself a Television Receivei.

Of course, Television is far from perfected. It is still in a most elementary stage.
There is little use in trying to gloss over the truth. But a start has been made and it
remains for the "fans” to do their share, as in radio, in helping to develop the new art.

In the last issue of TELEVISION there are full instructions from which you ambitious
enthusiasts can construct an efficient experimental set. With this set you will be able to
receive some of the Television programs now being broadcast. Experimenting will con-
tinually improve reception. Get your copy of this new issue today! Start to work on your
Televisor tonight! Be the first in your neighborhood to have a Television set. The old
"fan days” are here again. Don’t miss the fun!

Partial List of Contents

How to Build a Television Receiver

New Jenkins Radio Movies

New Belin Photo Transmitter

Vacuum Cameras to Speed Up Television

Infra-Red “Eye” Sees at Night

Valensi Television

Connection of Photo-Electric Cell

Practical Demonstrations Scheduled for Sta-
tion WRNY

Campbell Swinton Television System
uartz Crystals Synchronize Television Sets
aird Optical Lever Increases Speed
Recording Pictures with Air Jet
How to Build a Radio Photo Recorder

and many other articles of equal interest

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Another question: Could a high-tension trans-
mission line affect a high tension telephone line
running parallel, but twenty miles away? I have
been assured that it was affected, my informer
being an actual witness, he states.

Before I ring off I must say that the little
scientific talks in the front of your magazine are
very enjoyable, and I would like to see them
every month, discussing the latest scientific fea-
tures and discoveries, as in the past.

This letter is rather bulky, I admit, hut I would
like to see at least part of it in “Discussions,” my
questions and answers preferably.

Norman H. Moore,
1676 Third Avenue W.,
Vancouver, B. C., Canada.

(We would blush if we appended any comment
to your letter, it is so laudatory of our efforts.
We seem to have met your desires pretty closely.
Now as regards your questions: Light waves and
sound waves represent energy. Sound can be
made to drive machines, of course, in a purely
experimental way; and light is presumed to exer-
cise an absolute pressure, so that the sun is pushing
the earth when it shines upon it. Einstein is the
authority for the diverging of light from the straight
path, but Einstein’s theory is not accepted uni-
versally, and the same applies to time being a
curved entity; this again is Einstein’s. The only
way to get an answer to your question is to study
Einstein and then you will probably have trouble.
As regards the reflection of light from multiple
mirrors, we have to consider that it does travel
the 186,000 miles every second, giving an incom-
prehensible number of reflections. It is almost an
impossibility for the action of a high tension line
to affect a telephone line twenty miles away, for
the telephone system is not sensitive to anything
near the degree of sensitiveness of radio. — Editor.)

GOOD WISHES AND A KINDLY CRITICISM
FROM A LADY

Editor, Amazing Stories:

I do not see many letters from women in the
“Discussions,” so I thought we ought to let you
know that a few of us are among “those present.”

I have read your magazine since its first issue. I
always read “Discussions” first. I get many a
good laugh from some of them. Some do not
realize how they expose the immensity of their
ego.

The story that appealed to me most was The
Visitation. The Treasures of Tantalus was very
entertaining and exciting. In The War of the
Worlds, the description of the people leaving Eng-
land was very realistic. I like Wells, and have
read nearly everything he has written, including
political articles.

You have given us so many good stories that it
is hard to make a list. I like stories of other
worlds, and fourth dimensional stories. Wells’
Men Like Gods ought to be in your magazine. I

thought it the best he ever wrote, and would

like to read it again.

I can never hope to attain the heights of knowl-
edge that some of your readers seem to possess,

as I only went to sixth grade in school. But — I

don’t believe any of them get more real enjoy-
ment and knowledge from your magazine than I do.

In the March issue, the story by Jules Verne
contains the words airship, hangar, garage, auto-
mobile, turbines, twin-screw and many other words
that were not even “coined” at the time he wrote.
Can you please explain this? "In Ten Million
Miles Sunward, the only thing I see wrong is:
if the tides slow up the motion of the earth, the
comet would slow the motion in a much greater
degree. Even though the earth were closer to the
sun, our days would be longer and it would take
longer for the earth to travel around the sun,
thereby making the years longer instead of shorter.

I pass all my magazines on, but never give two
to the same person. I am trying to "boost” the
circulation so that we can have more than five or
six stories to an issue. . When they want another
copy they have to buy it. That’s how selfishness
often hides behind charity. But it isn’t all sel-
fishness. I would really like to see more people
enjoying your magazine. I suppose some day I
will regret having given them away, as I always
like to reread a good story; and you printed so
many that were really fine.

Mrs. Emma Ploner,

3334 W. Madison St.,
Chicago, 111.

[We think that the discussion columns of our
paper, giving the views of so many readers and
presenting such varied notions of criticisms of
our stories, are most interesting. It is curious to
see how differently the same story by the same
author affects different readers. II. G. Wells is the
one that gets most definitely opposite opinions
from readers. The Jules Verne stories are trans-
lations of the author’s works as he wrote them,
and The Master of the World is one of his last
efforts. This will explain the use of rather modern
words.

We have given an astronomer’s view of Ten
Million Miles Sunward.

It is most gratifying to feel that our readers
canvass for us. As far as rereading stories is
concerned, a really, good story will stand several
perusals. — EDITOR.]

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GREATEST OFFER
EVER MADE

Never before has it been possible
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Like a razor also, the pendulum was

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From "The Pit and the Pendulum."

* All Scientifiction Stories in list
of contents are identified with
a star and printed bold face.

CONTENTS OF THE SET

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OVER 2000 PAGES

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Memoir of Wm. H. Rogers.
Eulogy by James Russell Lowell.
Notice by N. P. Willis.

*Adventures of Hans Pfall
"The Gold Bug.

Four Beasts in One.

VOLUME TWO
Murders In Rue Morgue.

Mystery of Marie Roget.

"The Balloon Hoax
•MS. Found in a Bottle.

•The Oval Portrait.

VOLUME THREE
•The Purloined Letter.

•One Thousand and Second Tale ef
Scheherazade.

•A Descent into the Maelstrom.

•Von Kempelen and His Discovery.
•Mesmeric Revelation.

•Facts in Case M. Valdemar.

•The Black Cat.

VOLUME FIVE
•The Tell-Tale Heart.

•Berenice. Ligeia.

Eleanora. Morelia.

•A Tale of the Ragged Mountain!.
•The Spectacles.

King Pest.

•Three Sundays in a Week.

The Devil in the Belfry.
Lionizing.

X-ing a Paragrab.

VOLUME SIX

•Narrative of A. Gordon Pym.
VOLUME SEVEN

Metzengerstein.

The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether.

The Literary Life of Thingumbob, Esq.

How to Write a Blackwood Article.

VOLUME FOUR
The Masque of the Red Death.
The Cask of Amontillado.

•The Imp of the Perverse.

The Island of the Fay.

The Assignation.

•The Pit and the Pendulum.
The Premature Burial.

The Domain of Arnheim.
Landor’s Cottage.

William Wilson.

Predicament.

Mystification.

Diddling.

VOLUME EIGHT
The Oblong Box.

•Loss of Breath.

•The Man That Was Used Up.

The Business Man.

Tho Landscape Garden.

•Maelzel's Chess Player.

Poems of Words.

Tho Colloquy of Monas and Una.
The Conversation of Eros and Char-
mian.

Shadow — A Parable.

Philosophy of Furniture.

A Tale of Jerusalem.

•The Sphinx

VOLUME NINE
Hop Frog.

Tho Man of the Crowd.

Never Bet the Devil Your Head.
Thou Art the Man.

Why the Little Frenchman Wears
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Bon Bon.

•Some Words with a Mummy.

The Poetic Principle.

The Philosophy of Composition.
Old English Poetry.

The Angel of the Odd.
’Mellonta Tauta.

The Due de L’ Omelette.

VOLUME TEN
Complete Poems.

The Raven.

Tho Bells.

•Sonnet to SeleiH*.
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Tamerlane.

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756

AMAZING STORIES

The

FUTURE

by

Professor A. M. Low

“THE FUTURE” is one of the most
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THE FOURTH DIMENSION AND THE
POSSIBILITY OF OTHER DIMENSIONS
DISCUSSED

Editor , Amazing Stories:

The question of the Fourth Dimension is creat-
ing some discussion in your correspondence column.
My reading of Amazing Stories is confined to two
recent issues thus far. The explanation of that
problematical phenomenon given in “Fourth Dimen-
sional Robberies” does not quite satisfy me, but it
will pass for lack of a better one. The idea of the
mysterious extra dimension is not new to me, but
the conception of mechanical contrivances which
will operate under such problematical conditions
certainly is. A new department of fiction is thus
thrown wide open.

For a long time past, stories involving a9 yet
unrealized scientific feats have been appearing in
the magazines implying a plausible air of accom-
plishment. Of these interplanetary travel takes
the lead. There is nothing about which I would
be more skeptical than the asserted possibilities of
terrestrial inhabitants migrating to any other ad-
joining planet. Furthermore, if one of these was
ever reached in safety, the probability of a return
journey is even more remote. The principal diffi-
culties to overcome are the physical conditions in
transit so that human viability would continue pos-
sible, and functional capacity be retained. As a
physician I would doubt that. Also any kind of
aircraft or rocket projectile would require great
speeds under guidance to catch up with and make
a safe landing on the Moon or Mars. This would
require to be somewhere about two thousand miles
an hour. Such would be the problem, for missing
the earth on a return journey would be serious.
Moving eighteen miles a second, our planet is
covering space at sixty thousand miles per hour, so
that chasing it after missing it would be poor
satisfaction even with the aid of gravity. Thus I
must consider the recently announced intentions of
attempting such a trip as a phase of suicidal mania.

Another story I have just read, “The Blue Di-
mension,” is also attracting interest. It is more
plausible because of the parallel phase of the
Fourth Dimension. As I am a believer in the
reality of that dimension, I would not scout the
assertion of other dimensions as impossible or
unworthy of speculation. As yet anything beyond
the demonstrable three dimensions of cubic space
is purely a speculative problem. Anyone committed
to the metaphysical limitations of materialism will
reject the Fourth Dimension as unworthy of con-
sideration. But I am not a materialist. I have
looked into this problem of dimensions for a con-
siderable time, and can see some accessory func- -
tions of space which three dimensions do not cover
or satisfy. The discussion of time as a reality does
not signify, but the denial of time by your cor-
respondent is not exactly correct. Properly, time
is the measurable interval between two experiences
which may be registered by consciousness or by
the ticks of a watch or otherwise. The sum of
these is recorded on a dial, and the total covers a
history of a period short or long in which numerous
occurrences transpire. Time will have no appre-
ciable meaning to a Supreme Being, for the pen-
dulum of the Universe’s clock — Eternity — swings
in aeons only. Space also has much the same
limitation. Whether measured in inches or light
years, it is a human conception in which multiple
units of measurement play the chief part. The
co-ordinates of three intersecting rectangular diam-
eters will identify any location and function of
substances for size at least, no matter what the
geometrical figure may be.

This is not so easy, however, when we attempt
to measure the Universe at the uttermost limits
definable by astronomy. The sum total of all
conceivable Space must be Infinity. That is true
even if the Universe is limitable, which is not
yet proved. At infinity it is presumed with cor-
rectness that a circle becomes, so far as human
consciousness can see it, a straight line. By
what geometrical figure can we then represent the
Universe? After trying out the spheroid, cube,
and every other form of enclosed space, we will
find ourselves baffled. Three dimensions will not
hold it when we face the absurdities created by
using a measuring stick for infinity. It allows of
no multiples or additions, and therefore permits
the assumption of a Fourth Dimension to satisfy
the unsolved equation of Space.

Coming down to visible limits there are many
considerations of dimension, not visible to the
senses. Taking an empty box of one cubic foot
size, it contains, we certainly know, that much air,
possibly freely mixed with other gases, and atmos-
pheric dust There is also probably evenly dis-
tributed exactly one cubic foot of the universal
pabulum, ether. Were the gases exhausted by a
vacuum pump, there would remain the ether. If

Please say jon it in AMAZING

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10. IIow to Become a Successful Sales-

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13. Your Health and How to Improve It

14. Psychology of Advertising and Sales-

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16. The Factors of Success in Business

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18. How to Close Sales Successfully

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20. How to Make Yourself Invaluable In

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STORIES

AMAZING STORIES

757

will still be there if the box is filled with water
or liquid lead. Try as we will, there will always
be two dimensions of equal size inside one. They
co-exist, for few scientists will have the hardihood
to deny the reality of Ether in Space. It is the
only real thing there is, and therefore owns a set
of dimensions of its own.

Being a believer in Almighty God, a Spirit-
World, and the human soul, I see no place for
these within the scope of the physical three dimen-
sions. They belong to the Fourth or possibly a
Fifth Dimension containing elements of “spiritual
substance,” a term borrowed from Swedenborg.
On the score of the things now invisible to the
human senses, but still within the three-dimen-
sional plane, how much more remains unseen just
outside that limit, rather correctly inside and co-
existent, but not demonstrable by any means yet
devised.

Assuredly speculation along that line is an in-
teresting pastime. The outlook for “Scientifiction”
is promising in various directions. I do not see
the future as pictured by H. G. Wells nor any
others of the post-prandial prophets. It will
certainly be an intensive life, but not necessarily
so purely mechanical. I have rather exceeded the
limits of the correspondence sheet and will now
ring off. On the whole. Amazing Stories is far
preferable to the average current fiction magazine
with their preposterous repetition of modern round-
table stuff. A real flight of fancy gives one a
greater thrill, for the average modern short fiction
makes me tired.

R. Muir Johnstone, M.D.,
Sask., Canada.

(This letter is so well thought out and so nicely
put, that it does not seem to require comment from
us. It speaks for itself in excellent style. Dimen-
sions beyond the third are best looked upon as
hypothetical and mathematical conceptions. The
difficulties which the fourth dimension presents
appear when we try to make it apply to everyday
matters. We never could find that there was any
satisfaction in the construction or drawing of the
fourth dimension solid, the “tessaract,” so-called.
Yet several books have been written on this sub-
ject, all attempting to introduce the fourth dimen-
sion into everyday life jwtd everyday mathematics.
It was said that there were only twelve people in
the world who could understand Einstein’s theories;
perhaps some of these twelve might manage to
elucidate the fourth dimension to “the man in the
street.” — Editor.)

MORE ABOUT H. G. WELLS

Editor, Amazing Stories:

I have been a pretty constant reader of Amaz-
ing Stories ever since its inception, but not
until very recently have I paid any attention to
the discussions department. I now find that this
department contains as much interesting reading
matter as any of the stories in the magazine (and
the stories contain plenty). I don’t know whether
or not my letter will receive space in the discus-
sions department, but, as there has been a great
deal of opinion voiced about II. G. Wells’ stories,
I would like to give my views on this subject.

Frankly, I do not like Wells’ stories. That
is, I like the subject matter of them but I think
they are too stiff in style and seem to the reader
too unreal. What I _ mean by this is that Wells’
stories probably contain more scientific fact and are
more probable than the majority, but when one
is reading them he has the impression that he is
in a dream. Wells’ stories, I think, lack what
you might call human interest. They read like
a description or a catalogue of parts or events.
The idea I am trying to convey can be better
grasped by comparing Wells’ stories with the two
stories The Lost World and The Moon Pool which
appeared in Amazing Stories. I think these two
tales are among the most charming and interesting
i have ever read. Treasures of Tantalus is of
this sort, also. In these stories the author has
the knack of making you feel as though you were
right on the spot and going through the adven-
tures with the characters. I do not think this
is so in Wells. When I read him I always feel
as though I am walking around in a trance. I
would like to see more stories by authors like
Burroughs, Verrill, etc.

The i illustrations, as they are, suit me, although
I notice that sometimes the captions under them
give the whole point of the story away. This can
easily be seen by reference to The Master Key,
where the captiou tells that the character used an
electro-magnet to shoot the bolts on the doors
(which was the whole point of the story). I also
think the covers could be a little more conservative
in keeping with the high class standard of the
magazine.

Herbert l. Shepard,

“900 F Street, N. W., Washington, D. C.

[You arc going to get many stories in the futun
by ^your favorite authors. The covers which yoi
criticize, have been greatly admired and favorabl'
commented on by many of our correspondents »
we cannot but feel that they at least “draw thi
crowd. — Editor.)

lOl NEW WAYS TO MAKE
s li» $ 7 on Hour/

t> 6 Room Houses Free. Built any ■
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■Ill-Year Setters! Drees, Work, and Flannel
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ir.s«Xo5Eat¥re?

' i'.N.Y.

HMVKwkETHI HBtHH

ventlon. Proctor earned $538 cash bonus I
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H uge demand. Outfit Free. P aren ts Assoda-
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tion-wide demand for trained men and
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^MHMtSMMisMMit yon in touch
Write at once for

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Large shirt company wants men*
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Agents [ ~

Make *500 before Xmas selling per-
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Women by storm. Men and women repre-
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wonderful new Comfort Foot-

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| Sell beautiful'

.lany beginners earn
e time. $100 weekly

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1ST

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Make *10-*25 daily showing finest

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Women make *9 dally wearing and

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mission dally. Auto furnished. Fine si . .
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you remarkable opportunity to earn money.
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l's Suits !*9.65 ! Look. Feel Li ke Wool !

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Boys and Girls — Earn Xmas Mom

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en asutWomen

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tie offer and FREE outfit. Nawco Neck-
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Earn — *15.00 dally selling personal

Christmas cards made to order, the most
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9 E. 45th St.. New York

Please say you saw it in AMAZING STORIES

758

AMAZING STORIES

Unanimously

Accepted for Its Natural Humor!

C ONTENTS IN PAR T

Chepler Van — A corrected edition of
de woild’s gratest potery.

De Shooting of Sem de Jew —
Voodman Spare Dot Tree — De
Keed’s Lest Fight — De Willage
Blecksmit — De Face on de Bar Room
Floor — An Old Sweetheart From
Mine — and six others, famously funny.
Chepler 2 — Silas Greene ansers all
qwestions relatin' to life, liberty, and
the pursuit of members a the op-
posite sex.

Third Worst — In wich Abner Greene,
the son of Silas, tells of his conkwests
over the fare sex, and attemps to
express his views on matters uv
interest to nobody.

Oi! Oi! I’m Leffing — and how you’ll laughl

Page after page — illustration after illustration — a
continuous stream of innocent, natural humor that
will get under your skin in an effortless way, and bring
out every laugh in your system.

Such side-splitting fun! Parodies on famous poems
in the natural humor of the dialect! (See contents.)

The entire city has adopted this immensely funny
book. Its germ of humor and fun is spreading like
wild-fire! With it you will laugh as you have never
laughed before.

Then there’s Silas Greene and his son Abner,
fellows worldly wise concerning women, whose ex-
periences with wild women and tame women made
wild, we assure you, will send you off a’conquering.

Bring it into your home — you need it! The atmos-

phere will instantly become charged with un-
restrained laughter.

Oi! Oi! I’m Leffing — it is 25 c worth of million-
dollar humor.

25c ON ALL NEWSSTANDS
or write us direct

USE THIS COUPON NOW !

I

j THE E. I. COMPANY, 230 Fifth Avenue, New York City
J Gentlemen: Here is my 25c (stamps — coin).

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Please s ay you - s a.iv i. t in AMAZING STORIES

AMAZING STORIES

759

AN ADMIRER OF “RALPH 124C41+.”

CRITICISM OF THE THEORIES IN
“THE MOON OF DOOM"

Editor, Amazing Stories:

First of all, I want to urge the readers to get a
copy of “Ralph 124C41,” for it is one of the best
scientifiction stories I have read. I am sure they
have seen it advertised in your magazine.

A few words about the “Moon of Doom.” When
speaking of the effects of the tides upon gravity,
Mr. Bell did not state the theory clearly; one would
think that the tides directly affect the gravitational
pull of one body on another. But such is not the
case. Thettides of the earth merely affect the
speed of its rotation. If there were no tides, it
would follow that the earth ceased to rotate upon
its axis, and the earth and moon revolved around
each other, the earth always keeping the same side
toward the moon in the same way that the moon
keeps the same side toward the earth at the present
time. When the earth and moon revolve around
each other in this way, they will gradually ap-
proach each other until a collision occurs and they
form one body. (I have based all of my statements
on an article by Sir Oliver Lodge, which appeared
in the New York Times for March 4, 1928.) This
leaves out of consideration the action of the sun.

Now if this theory is true, what did Mr. Bell
mean when he said: “The pull of the earth has
already counteracted the push of the tides?” When
I first read this statement, I thought that Mr. Bell
meant that the tides contained so much gravita-
tional force that they could literally push or pull
the moon from its orbit. Of course, I could not
understand how such a statement could be true.
However, after reading Prof. Lodge’s article, 1
found that the tides affected the rotation of the
earth, and that the speed of the earth’s rotation
affected its gravitational pull upon the moon, but
that the tides themselves did not directly exert any
pull at all.

Although the theory of Sir Oliver Lodge and
that of Mr. Bell are directly opposite in meaning,
the principle is the same. Mr. Bell says that when
the moon approaches the earth, the earth will rotate
faster, while Sir Oliver Lodge says that after the
earth has ceased to turn upon its axis, the moon
willjbpproach the earth.

Mr. Bell made another little mistake when he
spoke of the days and nights becoming shorter. He
said that the sun rose three minutes late; in reality,
the sun would have risen three minutes early.

Why should the ato-plane fall when it struck
an air pocket traveling from the moon to the
earth? It would not fall downward or rather to
one side, as Mr. Bell said, but it would fall back
if it were within the gravitational pull of the moon
or forward if in the pull of the earth.

I wonder if the editor can tell me from which
of Poe’s poems Mr. Bell’s quotation is taken.

In reprinting from the works of the scientifiction
writers of several years ago, there is one (I
mean one of the best) whom you have entirely
overlooked — Morgan Robertson, who wrote some of
the best scientifiction I have ever read. “Beyond
the Spectrum,” written twenty-five or thirty years
ago, was one of the first and most original stories
to be written about the “Death Ray.”

The title, “Absolute Zero,” tells you the theme
of this story, as does “From the Darkness and
the Depths.”

“The Last Battleship” is perhaps the best of
the lot, although “Fifty Fathoms Down” contains
the most science.

Nearly all of Morgan Robertson’s stories are
about the sea; perhaps some of the readers remem-
ber “Masters of Men,” which was filmed. He has
written many stories of telepathy and hypnotism,
such as “Over the Border,” “The Magnetized
Man,” etc. He has also written many humorous
stories of the scientifiction type, namely, “A Chem-
ical Comedy,” “The Subconscious Finnegan,” and
“The Brain of the Battleship.” He has written
many others just as good as these I have named,
so I hope I will see some of his stories in Amaz-
ing Stories sometime in the future.

Now I do hope the readers will not criticize
“When the Sleeper Awakes,” as they did “The
War of the Worlds.” It has always been one of
my favorites, so I was very glad to see that you
were going to publish it. When you (the critics)
start on “The Sleeper Awakes,” please, please
remember that it was written thirty years ago.
Also, those of you who are rabid scientifiction
readers like myself, please don’t criticize Wells too
much for plagiarizing from “Caesar’s Column.”
What if he did? They are both wonderful books,
so let’s let them pass for what they are.

By the way, one of the readers wanted some
information about “The Conquest of Mars.” It
is in eight volumes and, by advertising, he should
be able to procure it for ten or fifteen dollars.

B. K. Goree, Jr.,
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Fort Worth, Texas.

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Please say you saw it in AMAZING STORIES

760

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(Mr. Bell’s quotation which you ask us about
is from Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem “The
Bells.” The tides being drawn up by the gravita-
tion exercised by the moon and the sun, may cor-
rectly be said to exercise gravitational force. But
in a general way we would say this, that in the
“Moon of Doom” the theory is stated in fairly
good fullness, and your comparison of it with Sir
Oliver Lodge’s theory, both involving, you say,
the same principle, is quite interesting. We shall
keep Morgan Robertson’s works in mind. We are
familiar with them and may find some adapted to
our pages. — Editor.;

THOSE COVERS OF OURS!

Editor, amazing Stories:

I am not impelled to comment at any length upon
the stories contained in your magazine, for they
impress me with their satisfying quality to such
an extent as to practically exclude any other im-
pression. I find them clever, highly entertaining
and instructive — a boon to a mind jaded with con-
centration and care.

But, now here’s the rub. I want to join others
in the criticisms of title and cover. I note that
you claim that the majority are not only satisfied
but also pleased pink in this regard, so I suppose
I ought to assume that further comment is futile.
Despite this, however, I feel that it ought to be
argued that the readers already won over who know
and seek the substance of your authors, surely
would not desert merely because you refine the tone
of the magazine, while on the other hand it would
be justifiable to assume that many new readers
would be gained by so doing. You seem to find
it impossible to believe that one could be so sensi-
tive as to tear off the covers to uphold their pride.
Can you not recognize the right to possess an
aesthetic sense! I always tear off the cover of my
copy, for I feel sure that to exhibit it would be a
detriment to my prestige among my friends. Non-
readers are necessarily superficial judges, and
surely- a gaudy, poster-like cover is not conducive
to lend dignity to scientifiction. Then, too, the title
Amazing Stories may be "pat,” but must also be
unhappy, inasmuch as it can so easily be associ-
ated with “Snappy Stories,” “Breezy Stories,”
“Creepy Stories,” etc.

But this harangue must needs be presumptious
for your mind seems to be made up, even though
for reasons that must, apparently, remain a mystery
to us outsiders, for it must be claimed that you
have disclosed no reason one can grant as sound or
sufficient.

Kindly extend my sincere sympathy to Marcley
W. Felton, F3/c, U. S. Naval Training School,
Hampton Roads, Va., and tell him that he may cry
on my shoulder if he lets me cry on his.

Baldwin, N. Y.

Harold F. Osborn,

(We have given a good deal of thought to letters
similar to the above, but so far we have not been
convinced by them.

We wish to agree fully with what our corre-
spondent says, and have no fault to find with it.
The fact remains, however, that the gaudy covers
do sell the magazine, and that is the most important
thing that any publisher considers. The publishers
are fully convinced of the fact that the covers are
not artistic or ethical, but this does not affect them
in their decision at all, for the simple reason that
experience has taught that only “flashy” covers are
easily seen when displayed on newsstands.

The next time you step up to a newsstand on
which are displayed ISO or more magazines, all of
which are fighting to be seen, make this test: Step
ten feet away from the newsstand and scan the
magazines rapidly for not more than three seconds.
The idea of this test is to see which magazine
impresses you most. You will find that only the
magazines with flashy and loud co’ors will attract
you at all, and that is a good test for these reasons:
You walk by a newsstand, and at best, you have
no intention to buy a magazine. Your attention will
be focused for not more than three seconds. If
one or two magazines don’t flash into your conscious-
ness and make you stop, that newsstand, from a
publication standpoint, has been lost, and you move
on. If, on the other hand, you do stop, and at
least look upon one cover, then that magazine has
struck you — has done its duty, even if you don’t
buy it. IV e could write quite an "amasing story”
about this very subject, but the fact remains that
in the magazine business, as everywhere else, it is
a fight for the survival of the fittest. It will be
found that the magazines with the quietest covers
are usually the poorest sellers.

National magazines like the Saturday Evening
Post, Liberty, and many others, all make an at-
tempt at a good color “splash” or “flash,” as it is
called in publication circles, in order to be seen
well, but, of course, a magazine forty or fifty years
old need not go to the extremes of a younger

Please say you saw it in AMAZING

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STORIES

AMAZING STORIES

m

magazine which wishes to achieve prominence in a
comparatively short time.

If Amazing Stories had a circulation of one
million copies and was twenty-five years old, it
would be simple to adopt a more ethical cover.
Right now, that is impossible. Another main rea-
son is that instinctively, the newsdealer will put
in tbe front rack the magazine that has the best
"flash,” and that stands out, because he knows
that even if not every passerby purchases it, at
least enough curiosity seekers will step to the news-
stand and buy something, and all readers probably
will agree, that Amazing Stories arouses a good
deal of interest by its so-called outlandish covers.

But quite apart from this, we venture to say
that most of the readers who are dissatisfied with
the loud covers, were themselves originally attracted
to Amazing Stories by these same covers. And we
have on file thousands of letters from readers ad-
mitting that they were attracted o the magazine
by its cover. And so far, the policy must be right,
because the circulation is increasing month by
month, with a satisfactory growth, and the pub-
lishers are convinced that this growth could not be
effected by printing a so-called ethical cover.

Purely as an experiment, we tried an ethical
cover on our September issue, which is the Scien-
tifiction emblem, and may be called a rather tame
cover as covers on Amazing Stories go; but we
know right now, that we will lose circulation on
that issue. It will take us about three months,
beginning August 6th, to know the final results,
but we will report them to our readers.

Outside of this, may we call the attention of
the few disgruntled ones to the fact that a study
of our covers will reveal that at least they carry
the idea of scientifiction better than anything else
we know of? We try to make every cover as full
of scientifiction as possible, and while we may not
always succeed, we believe that most of the time
we do. — Editor.)

AN UNSIGNED LETTER
Editor, Amazing Stories:

In writing this letter I have two definite objects
in mind. The first is in appreciation for what
Amazing Stories have accomplished for me, and
the second is a request. Let me tell you about
the first.

About two and a half years ago I was working
in a mill — an ordinary mill-hand, with no pros-
pects in life whatever. It was at this time that
I chanced to see a copy of Amazing Stories on a
newsstand. It happened to be the first issue, I
believe it came out with the April number of that
year. I read the magazine from cover to cover, and
then put the question to myself. Why couldn’t I
learn something about science? To make a long
story short, I saved my money and when fall came
I entered a well-known scientific college. I have
been a student there ever since, and with the com-
ing September I start tbe third year’s work there.
And that isn’t all, because when I finish there, I
plan to study medicine.

I haven’t missed a single copy of Amazing
Stories; in fact, I haven't lost a copy. I have
them all on file since the first issue.

Of late I’ve been rather busy and haven’t had
much time to read Amazing Stories, but wouldn’t
miss my monthly copy for anything, as I am firmly
convinced that had it not been for its splendid
work I would still be working in a mill.

Believe me, I’m a life member as far as the
magazine is concerned. To its influence I owe
everything that I’ll ever accomplish.

Now for the request that I mentioned at the
beginning of this letter: When I was a youngster
I used to read stories by “Noname.” These stories
were about the adventures of Frank Reade, Jr.,
and I certainly enjoyed them a lot.

Now the request is, will you give us some re-
prints on these stories by ‘‘Noname ?” I say ‘We,’
because I feel sure that other readers who have
read stories by this author will be glad to see the
stories in print again.

Until I make myself a name in science. I’ll
just sign off as,

B. N., Boston, Mass.

(We are glad to fee! that we helped you on
your way. We have one advice to give you, culti-
vate the habit of reading and studying and keep
away from trash. We have for a long time had in
mind the reprinting of some of the old "Noname”
stories, and have a collection in our rooms. You
will probably notice that we have given some re-
productions of his curious automobiles and things
which seem to foretell the progress of the present
day. — E ditor.)

THE CRUELTY OF SOME CRITICISMS

Editor, Amazing Stories:

I read your magazine with interest and appre-
ciate its ability to fill a literary cavity which, for
a long time needed filling. There is yet room for
improvement along almost every line of endeavor
but I am sure there are few beneficial alterations
possible in Amazing Stories.

I have read with avidity the discussions in the
magazine and have, until now, quelled the desire
to comment concernnig the criticism of certain
stories which did not have a common appeal. I
realize that criticism to a certain extent is a
necessity and yet there is, I am sure, no need for
such cutting frankness as is incorporated in many
of them.

Being a writer of humorous drivel, that is pub-
lished without credit to me, I am not subject to
such storms of opinion. Yet, I realize also, the
subtle cruelty of those comments. Those brain
children are the result of labor — real, hard labor —
and someone is bound to read them and be pleased
or the Editors would never have bought them.

Scientifiction is the result of research and study
and we are not qualified to find any fault unless we
have indulged in a greater amount of study and
diligent research than has the author.

If there is a story which you do not appreciate,
there is nothing which will compel you to read it.
You need not break into both ends of an egg to
see if it is of ancient vintage.

I sincerely hope that your correspondents will
be able to see this thing as I see it and be less
abrupt in offering their own personal opinions in
such a pointed manner. Criticism of certain styles
and types is of great help to the average author
but I wish to again tell such critics that it hurts
to have someone read you and then tell you that
you are rotten. I am not saying “do not criti-
cize,” but please moderate and say the same thing
with a little more tact.

Harry A. Barnes,

“The redhead humorist”

40 Oak St., Battle Creek, Mich.

(Your comment on an author whose work is
attacked by the critics is quite interesting, although
it sometimes seems that an author should be hard-
ened to unfavorable opinions of the public, as he
certainly has plenty of practice in receiving them,
unless he is more fortunate than most.

We want, however, the personal opinions of our
readers and we welcome what are called “brickbats”
and will try to be humble enough not to let them
hurt too much. Your letter, however, is certainly
“A Fable for Critics.” — Editor.)

A LETTER FROM ENGLAND

Editor, Amazing Stories:

I have read about ten copies of Amazing Stories
and I have no hesitation in stating that it is the
most interesting magazine that has been published.
Of course. Wells is a familiar author with me,
but I have enjoyed reading his stories for the
second time. His story of the prehistoric age was
interesting, but hardly "amazing.” As regards the
other stories, I enjoyed them all, with the exception
of “Hicks’ Inventions with a Kick.” These stories
I considered as absolutely without interest and
not a bit amazing or amusing. They reminded
me of the old Keystone, pie throwing comedies, and
bored me just as much. “The Moon Pool” was a
jolly fine yarn, and of the shorter stories, “The
Green Splotches” takes precedence. There is no
doubt but that, compared with Amazing Stories,
other magazines are very slow and I cannot get
interested in them. I wonder why it is that so
very little of your other publications is seen in
this country. I have never seen a copy of Science
and Invention here. I have answered one or two
of the advertisements in Amazing Stories, but
I think your advertisers must “jib” at the dis-
tance, as they did not reply to my letters.

Would any of your readers care to write to me?
I should be obliged if you would put me in touch
with any reader who would correspond with me,
on any subject. If any of them care to make a
friend in England, just a line and I will only be
too pleased to answer. Just before I close, I would
like to put in a complimentary word for the yarn
“Below the Infra-Red.” It was just fine. You
can rest assured that your magazine is well read
and well distributed.

Arthur Wellward,

25 Alma St., Green’s Park, Manchester, England.
* (Our Manchester correspondent seems to fail to
realize that “Mr. Hicks,” whom he disapproves of,
puts considerable science into funny stories going
under his name.

We are now going on the principle of publishing
the addresses of our correspondent. If anybody
wishes to have an English correspondent, Mr.
Wellward’s address is here, and he invites cor-
respondence. — Editor.)

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STORIES

Please say. you saw it in AMAZING

762

AMAZING STORIES

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VARIOUS SUGGESTIONS FOR THE EDITOR

Editor, Amazing Stories:

In one of the recent issues of the Amazing
Stories, a critic requested that the “Discussions”
columns be published in larger print. I was greatly
surprised when the response declared that only
a limited space was allowed for the columns. Surely
in a magazine having such a wide circulation as
this has, it would seem that the company would
go to a little trouble to better satisfy its readers.
It is indeed hard for one to read that print.

Another thing: a question in the “Votes of Pref-
erence” asks whether the reader is satisfied with the
present illustrations. I, for one, am not wholly satis-
fied. In many cases when reading Amazing Stories,
the reader sees the large illustration at the be-
ginning of a story, and sits on pins and needles
till he reaches the event which the picture illus-
trates. In this way many other events are hardly
noticed. I would suggest that each important and
interesting action in the story should have an
illustration. By means of these pictures the reader
could see every move in the event besides reading it.

Now to center on the stories.

It is doubtless a bore to you to receive countless
criticisms on one story published issues before, so
I pass over all but a few important ones.

The first one I mention is Edgar Rice Bur-
roughs’ “The Master Mind of Mars” in the
Annual Amazing Stories, It is improbable that
any author will equal this story. It is a great
masterpiece, written by a master mind. I hope
that Edgar Rice Burroughs will continue to give
his stories to Amazing Stories.

The March issue also contained a wonderful
story, “Ten Million Miles Sunward.” IIow a man
can work out such an impossible and truly “amazing
story” is beyond me. I look forward to many
more such stories and yet if such are published,
I can assure you that I' will become a raving maniac
without the aid of I.akh-Dal, Destroyer of Souls.
The latter is a thrilling, blood freezing tale, but
I didn’t think so before I read it. I disregarded
the accompanying warning and read the story
before I retired. Believe me when I say I’ll heed
every other such warning.

The last request I would like to make is for you
to try to have the stories published in simpler
form. I do not happen to be a scientist and it
is very hard to understand the terms the authors
apply to conditions or apparatus which, most likely
could be expressed in a simpler manner.

Henry Goldman,

98 Longwood Avenue, New York, N. Y.

(We have had serious thoughts about using larger
type for the “Discussions” columns, as this section
of the magazine has acquired so much interest and
importance. What you say next is quite inter-
esting. We believe that some authors, perhaps
most authors of fiction, would feel that they were
doing good work, if they could keep their readers
on pins and needles. We would like very well
to give more illustrations but we feel that the
greater point is to give more text. Your last state-
ment about the difficulties of understanding scien-
tific terms in our magazine will receive our fullest
consideration. We believe, however, that it will
not be easy to make our stories simpler than they
are and to still give them the scientific bias. —
Editor.)

HICKS’ INVENTION VINDICATED

Editor, Amazing Stories:

In reference to the story of Hicks’ Perambulating
Home which appeared in the July issue of Amazing
Stories, I am sending you a clipping from the
Rochester Evening Journal, which may prove of
interest to you.

Harold Cohen,

23 Catherine St., Rochester, N. Y.

Latest Paris Fancy Is Revolving House
on Exhibition

Paris, July 12 — (U.P.) — If you are inconven-
ienced because you haven’t got southern exposure
or because just as you are finishing breakfast, the
pleasant rays of the sun disappear from your win-
dow, don’t worry. Send over to Paris for a revolv-
ing house. They are shown at the first Exposition
of Building and Decorative Arts.

All you will have to do is touch a button and
the entire house revolves on a platform as far as
you desire. You can thus follow the elusive sun
until it finally drops out of sight below the horizon.

A 4 horsepower motor furnishes the power. This
is installed in the basement and all the gas, water,
electric tube and wires are grouped ingeniously in
a central chimney-like structure.

(Recently, in an illustrated paper, a comic pic-
ture was given of a whole party being deluged be-
cause the heat of the weather had opened the auto-
matic sprinklers. This also was reminiscent of our
inventive friend. — Editor.)

Please say you s aw it in AMAZING

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STORIES

764

AMAZING STORIES

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THE NAME “AMAZING STORIES”

Editor , Amazing Stories:

I get a great deal of enjoyment out of the let-
ters of the readers, and must say you people
have a lot of patience with them.

Personally, I can’t see a darn thing wrong
with the magazine, except the name. The name
puts it in a class with magazines called “Ghost
Stories,” “Weird Tales,” “Detective Stories,”
“Wild West Stories” and the rest of that trash.

I agree with you that Paul’s drawings are very
clever, and I don’t dislike the garish covers, but
the word “Scientifiction” is much more in keeping
with the sort of thing you print.

I saw the magazine on the various racks all
over the country long before I ever thought of
buying one. I loathe the sort of fiction suggested
by the titles given above, and I never took the
time to really study the pictures on the cover, for
the name was enough.

However, one night I was marooned in a little
town (I’ve forgotten where now) and in my trav-
eling I had read every blamed magazine offered
in that particular town’s only drug store. That is,
every magazine but one, and that one was Amazing
Stories. I didn't even consider it, and was about
to walk away, when the vision of a long lonesome
evening made me decide that anything to read was
better than nothing.

I enjoyed the magazine thoroughly, and intended
to remember to look for it the next month. I
believe that it was some two months later, when
I happened to remember the magazine, and promptly
went in search of it, only to be told that it hadn’t
sold very well, and had been taken off the market.
Believing this, I bought something else, and tem-
porarily forgot all about it.

It was sometime later — anyway I know I had
come to Mobile, Alabama in my wanderings —
when I just accidentally saw a wild looking cover
peeping out from behind some other magazines.
I pulled it out and was tickled to death to see that
it was the magazine I had enjoyed so much. The
fact that it was two months old, and soiled didn’t
dim my pleasure a bit. I tried everywhere to get
the succeeding issue, and finally contented myself
with the current issue.

Needless to say I have been a constant reader
ever since. I have not subscribed for the simple
reason that I have moved about so much I would
only be in a constant fear that I wouldn’t get my
magazine.

What is bothering me now, is this: Is it pos-
sible for me to procure the back numbers? I loaned
several of my numbers to "friends,” including the
three issues containing “The Moon Pool.” These
numbers I want more than any others, for that
story has made a lasting impression on me and
I feel that in losing the story I have lost some-
thing precious. I have the August 1927 issue,
then have lost the September and October numbers
through “friends,” but beginning with November,
I have every one, and just let any so-called friend
try to get them away from me. When I loan them
now, I have chains on them. And now every one
laughs at me, over the way I guard my books.
In fact they get so disgusted with me, they go
out and buy their own copies, which is just what
I want them to do. For I want this magazine
to go on and on. And if readers will do it, I’m
sure going to do my bit to get converts.

I am managing a little restaurant on the edge
of the city, and have everyone working there read-
ing Amazing Stories, so that those who come in
wonder what it is all about, and pretty soon they
are doing it too. A frequent remark is jabbed at
me like this, “Dam you and your magazines, you’ve
got me too interested in them now, I can’t half
attend to my work.” But it is all said with a
good natured smile, so I know that they are will-
ing prisoners.

But going back to my first criticism, I have the
“Divil’s own time” to convince them that I’m not
reading trash. That I learn something out of every
story which I read seems truly “Amazing,” and
unless 1 nail my company and talk to them like
a salesman on his first commission, I only get
the merry Hal Ha!

So for the “luv-a-Mike,” give us poor pioneers
a break and put the word “Scientifiction’.’ on the
front, so that when we sit on a street car reading
our dearest fiction, we will arouse the admiration
of our fellow men, and make them realize that ours
is a superior mentality not interested in so called
trashy stories. A hidden magazine doesn’t advertise
you, and I always fold the cover back when I am
reading where I can’t get on a platform and vindi-
cate myself. I am honestly ashamed of the name
and what it implies.

But as to stories, print whatever you can and
will, for I am grateful for even the so called poor
ones. But don't give up the magazine.

Madlyne A. Riegel,

Apt. 1, 870 Larrabbe St., Los Angeles, Cal.

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(The trouble with the name of Amazing Stories
as far as changing it is concerned is that expressed
in another comment published here. We now
have a very large number of readers; enough
to populate a fair sized city.

We have a limited number of back numbers,
and we think we can supply you with the ones
you want. If you will write to Publishers of
Amazing Stories telling them what numbers you
wish to buy, they will let you know if they can
supply them.

All people with a fondness for books have a
wish to lend good ones to friends, but the result
of that is often very sad. For like loaned um-
brellas, loaned books are apt not to come back.
Vou need not fear that we will give up the maga-
zine; it has so many readers.

We publish all sorts of comment making no
attempt to avoid giving unfavorable criticisms, and
the only reason that our discussion columns read
so much in our favor is that our readers are affected
in that way. It is rather interesting to learn
from your letter that what you call a wild-looking
cover is what attracted your attention to the long
looked for Amazing Stories. — Editor.)

THE IDEAL OF PERFECTION AND THE
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

Editor, Amazing Stories:

Both yourself and Super-Critic C. P. Townsend
have somewhat misunderstood my letter.

Of course the survival of the fittest is the funda-
mental basis of animal existence; but I referred
to the highest types of evolution, and to them the
law of selfishness no longer applies, otherwise there
would be no chivalry or protection of the weak,
no saving of women and children first in a catas-
trophe, and what we call Honor and Virtue would
not be considered admirable qualities, but signs
of weakness.

Followed to a logical conclusion, if there were
no higher standards than individual self-interest,
crimes would become virtues, organized society
would disappear, and anarchy would rule supreme.

Sacrifice and service may not characterize hu-
manity in general, but it is the ideal towards which
we are striving, and I have enough experience of
life to have seen some examples of it.

I did not write in the expectation of receiving
answers to my questions, but only to stimulate
the thinking and imaginative processes of your
readers, and I may say to Mr. Townsend that I
get more satisfaction out of Camille Flammarion’s
‘‘The Unknown” and L. W. Roger’s “Dreams and
Premonitions” than I get out of Dr. Walsh’s “Psy-
chology of Dreams.”

I am somewhat gratified to notice that the writer
of “The Moon of Doom” in Amazing Stories
Winter Quarterly has made Professor Burke
exemplify the ideal of sacrifice, by giving his own
life to save his friends.

Let me ask another question from the standpoint
of evolution: Why does not a Genius produce a
Super-genius? Why are the children of various
types of Genius mediocre?

J. A. Netland,
Oakland, Cal.

(Your letter is very interesting. There is, of
course, a great deal more than the rigid survival
of the fittest in the processes of animal life on
this world; as to why the children of geniuses are
not geniuses themselves, an adequate answer is
hard to give, but you will find that a great deal
has been written on this subject. Camille Flam-
marion is perhaps almost too imaginative but as
we have seen, imagination is a very important
thing in the development of our knowledge of
natural science. — Editor.)

A YOUNG STUDENT OF ASTRONOMY WHOM
“AMAZING STORIES” HELPED

Editor, Amazing Stories:

Ever since I was nine years old (I am seventeen
now) there was something lacking in my everyday
life that I could not get used to; there was some-
thing needed and I did not know what it was until
one day, while passing a newsstand, the prominent
cover of your last October number caught my eye.
Story of stories! “Around the Universe” was
truly the most wonderful story I had ever read.

Immediately after reading it I knew what was
troubling my peace of mind. It was the science
of Astronomy that I craved knowledge of and I
got it in elementary form from “Around the Uni-
verse.” Since then I have made great headway
in this science and am saving my money to pur-
chase a telescope. I have now got a yearly sub-
scription for your magazine and enjoy it very
much.

These are the stories that were the most pleasing
to me: “The Colour Out of Space,” “Around the

Please say you saw it in AMAZING STORIES

AMAZING STORIES

767

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Please mall me at once as many of the following Items
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Address.

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Universe,” “Below the Infra Red,” “The Comet
Doom,” “The Lost Comet,” “The Moon of Doom,”
“The Terrors of the Upper Air,” “The Return of
the Martians,” “The Octopus Cycle.”

J. M. Walker.

205 Lenore St., Winnipeg, Man. Canada.

(You will make the best possible use of our
stories if you will let them introduce you to any
line of study which will please you, such as as-
tronomy. We would be very glad to feel that our
work has operated to introduce such readers as
you to the world of natural science. — Editor.)

SOME NOTES ON GEOLOGIC CHRONOLOGY

Editor, Amazing Stories:

Allow me to comment on “The Ancient Horror,”
that appeared in the April number of Amazing
Stories.

The writer stated that the saurians roamed the
earth during the Mesozoic era, some five hundred
millions of years ago.

Pirsson and Schuchert of "Yale state that the
Archeozoic era began about 500,000,000 years ago.
This would make the Mesozoic occur about 85,000,-
000 miles ago.

Pages 105-106 in textbook by aforenamed men.

Even with the Archeozoic beginning 1,000,000,000
years ago the Mesozoic would only be some 200,000,-
000 years ago.

The Sauropoda were land and not water reptiles
of the sort described. Pages 481-485.

Another shot. I have lived on a farm nearly
all my life and never saw a cow go into a lake
or river if there was any other possible place
to go to.

References are from, “A Text-Book of Geology,
Part 1, Physical Geology.”

Written by Louis Pirsson and Charles Schuchert.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., N. Y.

G. R. Brackley,
Waterville, Me,

(Geologic ages are absolutely speculative. The
science of geology and mineralogy is charged with
speculation. The old dispute between the igneous
and aqueous schools of geology give a good illus-
tration of how much uncertainty has been felt
about that science.

If you have never seen a cow stand in a river
or pond in hot weather on your farm, the query is
suggested as to whether there was a pond or a
river on your farm and, if so, were they not fenced
in ? — Editor.)

ANTS IN THE FIRE EXTINGUISHING
DEPARTMENT

Editor, Amazing Stories:

Enclosed you will find a clipping that may be
of interest to readers of “The Master Ants.”

The pictures by Paul are excellent.

The stories by H. G. Wells are the very best
in the magazine.

Please give us more of II. G. Wells and Jules
Verne.

Charles Lawrence,

111 7 West Kalamazoo, Lansing, Michigan.
(We thank our correspondent for the clipping
he has sent us; it certainly is very interesting in
view of the various stories of ant life which we
have published. Our correspondent, we are told,
is a high school student, and it is a positive grati-
fication to us to get so much criticism from our
younger readers. It is comparatively easy to
write books for grown people, but it is very diffi-
cult to write for the young, as what will please the
young is a great triumph. We can cite Lewis
Carrol’s two books about the charming “Alice,”
and Milne’s book “When We Were Very Young,”
as an example of what a successful book for chil-
dren is. Those three books, all of them short
made the reputation of their authors.

Below is the reprint of the cutting you have
kindly sent us.

Ants Have Fire Departments

The discovery that some ant hills have fire
departments has just been made by Mile. Mar-
guerite Combes, French naturalist. She placed
a lighted taper on a hill and a batttalion of
ant firemen extinguished it. Some squirted
liquid formic acid from their jaws on the
taper. Others tore at it. Many perished. One
hero dragged another from danger.

Mortals are just beginning to understand
how “human” the insects are.

— Editor.)

T HE publishers need copies of every is-
sue of AMAZING STORIES Magazine
published in 1926 and 1927, and they would
appreciate hearing from anyone who has
any or all of these copies and is willing
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